


The Rescue

by Sia



Series: The Renegades [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 49
Words: 161,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sia/pseuds/Sia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira Surana sets out to rescue Alistair from Weisshaupt when he doesn't return after being called away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Has Come

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of the rewritten version. I hope it reads a lot better than the "rough draft."

It had been far too long without word.

Moira Surana sat in her study, staring at the flames in her fireplace. Perrin, her Mabari, sat with his great head on her small feet, snoring. Maker’s breath, she missed Alistair. It was still awfully cold at night and in the morning, but spring in Ferelden always had an uphill battle against the winter ice. The cold nights made his absence worse.

They’d argued, of course, about him answering the call of the Wardens at Weisshaupt. Moira knew it was a bad idea to send Ferelden’s king on this errand, but he’d insisted.

“I know you’re the Warden Commander, love, but they addressed the summons to me. I need to go, at least to tell them they’re mistaken,” he held her much smaller hands in his as they sat facing each other on her bed. The rooms she kept in the palace at Denerim were separate from his to keep up the illusion the King wasn’t desperately in love with his elf-mage Chancellor. Not that he paid much attention to propriety when he snuck around his own castle to spend the night with her in the oversized, four-poster bed.

“Then send a damned raven!” She’d nearly shouted. She looked down at where his hands folded around hers, his warmth leaching away the chill. “They’re going to want to know why we’re alive, Alistair.”.

He lifted one hand to run a gentle finger along her jaw and tucked a lock of raven hair behind her pointed ear, then drew down to lift her chin to look her in the eye, “I know. And I’ll play dumb, just like I said. Or blame it on Riordan. Let him be the hero.”

“Maybe you should tell them,” she had suggested. Shock widened his hazel eyes.

“Uh, no, that’s a bad idea. Bad, very bad.” He shook his head.

“Why? If something goes wrong, they’ll at least be prepared to stop her,” the elf mage pointed out.

“You suddenly not trusting the swamp witch, love?” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughing at her.

She glared at him and jumped off the bed, beginning to pace, the heavy wool robe swinging around her ankles. “Of course I trust her! I’m just too suspicious and practical, both of which she would approve. All those books, they warp a girl’s brain, you know.” Talking of Morrigan always made her antsy, she missed her old friend. She shivered, she hated winter; she could never seem to get warm, and her hair still being damp from washing it earlier didn’t help.

Moira felt Alistair’s eyes on her; she knew he loved to watch her move. She spun to face him, knotting her fingers together. “Take me with you then,” her voice was quiet.

“No. Both of us can’t be gone,” she saw the disappointment on his handsome face at the idea of their separation. But she knew he was right. They’d taken Morrigan’s bargain, not just because Moira trusted the apostate woman, but because they knew without them both, Ferelden would fall back into the hole they’d dragged it out of. The mages and elves both clung to her as a living symbol of their struggles, and the humans looked to them to protect them. And there’d been no guarantee either of them, or Riordan, would make it to the Archdemon alive. When Riordan had fallen to his death, they had just looked at each other, through the smoke and the blood and the gore and the bodies. The ritual had been an act of desperation. Being together afterward, that was just a byproduct. “They addressed the summons to the Grey Warden Commander Alistair Thierin, not the Grey Warden Commander Moira Surana.”

She made an impatient noise, “That’s because they’re idiots. They don’t understand. Andraste’s ass, maybe it’s because I’m an elf.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” He squirmed a little where he sat on the bed, his large hand going to the back of his neck and his hazel eyes looking away from her, toward the floor.

Moira shook her head and changed the subject, knowing the frequent exhibitions of racism against her made him increasingly angry and left him feeling guilty. Especially since she didn’t rail against it, as he thought she should. He didn’t realize there was little she could do except fight the system from within, such as support his appointment of Bann Shianni. Especially since she was also a mage. And he’d done his own damage giving in, after all. He was the one who’d decided to keep her as his mistress. He regretted not forcing their marriage down the Landsmeet’s throat after the defeat of the Blight, but she doubted Ferelden could have handled a mage and an elf sitting beside a bastard king on top of an elven Bann. She was just playing by the rules that were still too entrenched to break. People watched her, even now, despite all she’d done, for undue influence on him. Rumors of blood magic, possession, and darker things whispered in corners where they thought he couldn’t hear. He did. And he’d hold her that much tighter at night, his face buried in her hair, arms and legs wrapped around her while she tried not to cry and worry that she was endangering all they’d built.

“On this, I’m right, and you know it, my love,” he reminded her as she still stood at the window looking out. She could see in the half-twilight that it was snowing again. “You’re always saying we need to take advantage of those who underestimate you.”

“But Weisshaupt is not supposed to be our enemy,” she pointed out, turning to look at him..

He shrugged his broad shoulders, coming up to stand behind her at the window, his warm hands cupping the points of her narrow shoulders. “As you’ve pointed out to me many times, my love, an ally is an enemy who hasn’t found a reason to betray you yet. You can only count on friends.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Stop quoting me at me.” She turned and slid her arms around his waist, hands pressing flat against the muscles of his back, inhaling his familiar scent of sage-scented soap and leather and smoke from the ever-burning fireplaces. His arms slid around her, the weight and warmth comfortable and reassuring, his fingers playing through her curls sending shocks down her spine.

“Why? You are entirely too wise for your years.” There was laughter in his voice. She loved hearing it. Laughter belonged there.

“Well, that’s the joy of being the older woman. All that worldly experience.” She tilted her head to smile up at him. “That and all that reading, like I said. It’s warped my mind.” They stood, watching the snow fall on the courtyard. He would be gone in the morning.

* * *

His thumbs hooked in his belt, Zevran leaned against the doorway, watching his Warden. She sat still, lost in thought, staring into the fire without seeing it. She had been doing this quite often lately, when the letters from Alistair had abruptly and inexplicably ended. The large Mabari hound at her feet raised his head, finally alerted to the assassin’s presence, or perhaps wondering why he was lingering in the doorway, and met Zevran’s eyes before rolling over with a large sigh of contentment and presenting a different side to the heat of the fire. Some watch dog you are, the former Crow thought with some amusement. The dog’s movement had alerted her to him, however and his chance at simply watching her unobserved evaporated.

“Zevran!” As always, he felt his heart skip a beat at the way her smile made him want to smile in return.

“Copper for your thoughts, my friend?”He pushed himself off the doorway with a shrug of his shoulder and crossed to the other large chair in front of the fire. It was Alistair’s usual seat, but in the King’s absence, borrowing a chair wouldn’t matter.

“It’s been too long. This isn’t like him.” She frowned, her dark brows drawing down over her blue eyes. A blue humans couldn’t achieve, only elves could be blessed with, he’d noticed. Her pointed ears twitched and he put his hands firmly on the arms of the chair to keep from reaching over to trace the tip. She’d liked that. Once.

“This isn’t like whom?” He asked, arching his own brow and grinning at her. She had a tendency to develop two bright spots of pink along her cheekbones and look directly at a man with those eyes that made him want to drown in them when she was angry. He was rewarded as she did exactly what he wanted.

“Alistair, Zevran! Alistair!” She made a tiny growl of exasperation in the back of her throat. His grin widened. “It isn’t like him to stop communicating. The last note was merely a very terse, ‘I’ve arrived,’” she told him, standing up. She began to pace, the heavy robes wrapped around her for warmth flaring out behind her, revealing her small, sock-covered feet.

He waved a hand, airily. “Yes, I know.” He watched her pace, wishing the robes weren’t so heavy, or maybe not tied quite so tightly. She’d once allowed his advances, back before Alistair had gotten up the nerve to give her that stupidly gallant and romantic rose, and he had to admit, he’d been the one to screw up his own chances with the elf mage who now paced in front of him, frantic with worry about another man. That didn’t mean he still didn’t appreciate her salient qualities. _And wish things had been different. Shut up._ “And every letter prior to that has been very explicit and very detailed in what he intended to do to you upon his return, I know!” He loosely crossed his legs, arranging the leather kilt to be as revealing as possible. He propped one ankle on his knee and steepled his fingers, looking up at her from under one eyebrow.

She spun toward him and nearly tripped over Perrin. “You read them! Zevran!”

He raised both eyebrows and attempted to keep the amusement out of his voice. “But of course, m’Lady. It’s my job to protect you, after all. That is one thing Alistair and I agreed upon when he departed.”

She arched an eyebrow, “‘My Lady?’ Since when are you chivalrous?”

He mockingly put a hand to his heart. “You wound me!”

“Not yet, I haven’t!” She growled. She put her hands on her hips. He was all but waiting for one tiny foot to stamp itself in irritation. He prayed she wouldn’t. He might die if he had to keep a straight face for that. “Protect me from what? Lustful thoughts? Lascivious letters? You realize I can shatter people with a word, _right_?”

She’d left him an opening he couldn’t refuse. Fortunately, Perrin had evacuated the area when he’d been afraid his mistress might step on him already. Zevran was out of the chair and on one knee in front of her in a heartbeat, the stone of the floor cold on the unarmored skin of his leg. He took one of her hands off her hips and raised it to his lips. “My lady, you _shatter me_ with a mere look.” He risked a glance at her face but when their eyes met, he couldn’t stop the laughter that threatened to burst out of him. Neither could she, apparently. She collapsed onto her knees, leaning on him. They both ended sitting on the floor in front of the fire with him curled behind her back and leaning on one arm, so close he could smell the Orlesian rose-scented perfume she'd used that morning.

Once the laughter subsided, he told her, “Nevertheless, he did task me with protecting you. I’ll admit reading your correspondence may not have fallen under that original command, but I wanted to be sure it was actually from him and not something luring you into a trap. I am your friend and his after all.”

She turned her face toward him and just looked at him for a moment. “You once said you admired my ruthlessness and decisiveness.” He nodded, uncomfortably aware of how close her face was to his, her lips to his. _I could close the distance in a heartbeat._ “I don’t actually care what he ‘desires’ in this respect. I’m leaving tomorrow. Arl Eamon is hanging around, he can make himself useful and keep the country from falling apart while I’m gone.” Moira stood, leaving the front of his body cold in the sudden draft left by her absence. He heard Perrin’s claws on the stone floor as the Mabari scrambled to his feet, ready to follow her.

Zevran had to move quickly to get in front of her. He sprang to his feet and nearly sprinted to get around her. “And where is it we’re going then, my dear Warden Commander?” The assassin asked, blocking her path to the door by simply leaning on it again, thumbs hooked nonchalantly in his belt. For a moment, he thought she would order him to get out her way. An order he had no intention of obeying, of course.

“ _I_ am going to Weisshaupt.” The emphasis on the pronoun was obvious. “They can’t hold the King of Ferelden indefinitely.”

“It will probably be a wasted trip. But I wouldn’t mind getting out of this castle. The Fereldan countryside is supposed to be simply stunning in the spring!” He dropped his false smile. She’d crossed her arms and had begun to frown anyway. “Besides, as far as they are concerned, they are not holding the King of Ferelden. They are holding a Grey Warden,” Zevran pointed out.

“There is no ‘we’ on this trip, Zev. It’s Warden business. They won’t let you into Weisshaupt. And you know as well as I that they aren’t that blind to what they’re doing.”

He considered arguing with her further, but the tone in her voice made him step aside, “As you wish.” He bowed at the waist, slightly. She glared at him one last time, before sweeping out of the room, her vibrant red fur-lined wool cape sweeping after her, her socked feet making no sound on the stone. He felt a moment of pride in that small achievement. That was something he’d taught her. However, no one could teach that dog to walk quietly, his claws clicked on the stone in her wake.

* * *

 

Moira headed for the armory. It would be good to feel steel around her and have her weapons in hand again. The guard recognized her and unlocked the heavy doors for her, pushing them open. She stood for a moment, looking at the line of armor stands. The dragonscale armor Alistair had commissioned before that fateful Landsmeet was gone, he’d worn it when he left, leaving that gaudy gold armor of the King of Ferelden behind. Her own armor hung toward the back, nearly hidden behind the guards’ supplies. Shining silver, it was splashed across one shoulder with a stylized dragon as if painted in blood. The glowing green sword Starfang and the shining silver sword Spellweaver hung crossed on a stand in front of it, she could really only use one at a time, but she carried both, just in case, with a long dagger for her off-hand. She supposed she could get a servant to bring it to her in her quarters and not wear it through the halls of the castle. It would alarm the servants a great deal less. But she needed armor on. She felt too vulnerable.

It didn’t take long to put on. It was much easier with a second pair of hands, though. Moira smiled to herself as she remembered the first time she felt secure enough in her abilities as an Arcane Warrior to finally put on armor. It took entirely too long because Alistair would stop after every buckle and tickle her wherever she wasn’t yet covered in steel. She’d collapse in giggles and he’d kiss her thoroughly, only to start all over again with the next buckle. Oghren had eventually interrupted them by walking up behind them and belching loudly. While Alistair was kissing her. The rest of the armor went on quickly after that. As long as they didn’t look at each other and burst out laughing again.

She was down to that last hard-to-reach buckle when Zevran walked into the armory. “Following me?” she asked, straining.

When he didn’t respond right away she turned to meet his amber eyes. One tawny eyebrow raised, a smirk playing about his full lips. But instead of a smart-assed remark or lewd comment, he merely said, “I told you once, I would to the Black City, if I had to.” He walked the length of the row of armor stands, his gait smooth and graceful. _Maker, he was distracting, even as worried as I am._ “Here, let me,” He crossed the room quickly to help her reach that problematic buckle. Of course, he had to help her in the most suggestive way possible. He stood in front of her and reached around behind her, his hands lingering on the small of her back, his face less than an inch from hers. He smelled of leather and the woodsmoke from the fireplaces and cloves and the earthy scent of deep mushrooms. The buckle met and he grinned down at her.

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. His smooth skin a marked difference from the stubble she was missing. “Thank you. I have to talk to Arl Eamon, now,“ she picked up the two swords.

Zevran chuckled, “You’re awfully well armed to visit our friend the Arl.”

“I guess I am at that.” The corner of Moira’s mouth tilted up, “I suppose I should see him in the morning, then.”

“I think that would be best, yes.” She met his eyes and he looked at her steadily. She knew he wasn’t fooled for one second by her subterfuge. The question was, could she outrun him? Probably not. But it was best to let him think he’d tracked her. She hated to be that cold-blooded, but she knew Zevran as well as she knew Alistair. He would press any advantage she gave him. And Maker forgive her, she wasn’t entirely certain she’d ever stopped giving him unintentional advantages, despite choosing Alistair in the end. She stepped around him, picking up her cloak and the heavy dress she’d worn earlier. She rarely wore dresses. She could almost hear his eyebrows raise. The Mabari clicked along behind her, unquestioning.

Fortunately, she’d already spoken with Arl Eamon that morning about being regent while she was gone; Zevran, of necessity, had been the last person she’d told of her plans. She did need to go back to her rooms, though. Her money was there, as well as her lyrium potion stash, and the pack she had already prepared that morning. The tiny vials of blue liquid were utterly necessary while she wore armor. Her magic was all that allowed her to wear it. Without it, she wouldn’t have been able to lift even the breastplate.

She made it to her room and grabbed her pack, creeping through the silent corridors, Perrin padding along behind her. The castle was very quiet this time of night. Patrolling guards were the the sole signs of life but none of them would stop her. Only Alistair could order them to stop her and, well, he wasn’t here.

She slipped out of the sally port, Perrin at her heels, and started walking. She’d buy whatever else she needed on the road; the faster she traveled, the better. The night was clear and cold, the stars shining overhead. The moon bright enough to light her way through the city. She wove the single concealment spell Morrigan had taught her and wrapped it around herself and the mabari and headed for the city gates.


	2. The Land Is Dark

Zevran ghosted along behind Moira, amused that she thought she was being clever. Or perhaps that is what she only wanted him to think? _Ah, a man could drive himself insane and be happy doing it trying to figure out what that woman was up to._ It was a game he enjoyed playing. She would be very angry with him. He grinned at the prospect. He was not near enough to alert her, though he figured the Mabari knew he was there, but close enough to rush in to help if she got into trouble.

Which, because Andraste was _so very_ kind, happened a day out of Denerim.

* * *

 

Moira cursed the lack of horses. Actually, she cursed the need to sneak out of Denerim so that she couldn’t _get_ a horse to speed up her journey to Kinloch Hold. Greagoir and Irving were probably the only Knight Commander and First Enchanter that wouldn’t lock her up as an Apostate before sending to Weisshaupt to verify her Grey Warden status. So, she’d jogged most of the day, eating up the miles, and her magic. She was sore and her feet ached; her very bones felt like rubber after the exertion. _You’ve gotten soft, Moira. Suck it up. Damned Kinloch, having to be in the middle of nowhere._

Which meant, of course, that the attack happened just after she set up her small tent and was collecting firewood to keep herself warm. The first bandit walked into the clearing rather brazenly where she was setting up her tent. His hood was pulled up over his face, obscuring his features save for a sandy, scraggly beard. His scuffed and torn leather armor had seen better days. The pommel of the blade at his hip, however, glinted in the swiftly dimming twilight above a well-oiled scabbard. A rough voice asked, “I see you’re all by your lonesome, there, miss. Care for some company by your fire?”

Moira straightened up from where she’d been arranging the firewood for her small camp. She tucked one hand behind her back, summoning a fireball to her palm, but holding it steady. Perrin let out a low growl, crouching. “This campfire would not be to your liking, I’m afraid. I think you should find friendlier ground.”

“I’m sure this one’s friendly enough. Pretty little elfling like you. Where’d you get such armor? Bet it’d fetch a pretty penny. Just like you would. Get her boys!” On the second “get,” she sent the fireball arching through the air at the first bandit as he drew his sword. It hit him full in his shadowed face. She gathered her strength and lashed out with a Cone of Cold and threw Stonefist after it, getting two with one blow as they unwisely bunched together in the clearing. Reserves depleted, but not so much she couldn’t heal herself or Perrin, she unsheathed one of her swords and drew her dagger and began to fight conventionally, her remaining magic lending her arms strength. The mabari was a canid blur as he ripped the throat out of one bandit and jumped immediately to tear the hamstrings of another.

And then, Zevran was there. His dual blades flashing in the twilight, he was behind her and her senses stretched to accommodate his familiar presence at her back as he deflected someone’s opportune strike at her unprotected flank. She felt the Mabari take a vicious sword strike across his haunches and gasped, throwing healing energy at the dog without thinking. The two elves and the Mabari fought the dozen or so bandits quickly and efficiently. Moira’s healing skills had only been necessary that once, thankfully. When the last bandit fell in a twitching heap, Moira collapsed forward, yanking her gauntlets off her sweating hands to brace herself against her thighs. She panted, trying to catch her breath. Turning her head, she glared at the assassin. “What in Andraste’s Name are you doing here, Zevran?”

The elf's smile was wide. He looked very pleased with himself for some reason. “Don’t you smirk at me!” She straightened up, closing the distance between them. She jabbed her finger into his leather-armored chest, yelling up at him.

“Ai! Stop that!” He grabbed her hand, raising it to his lips. She clung to her irritation against the thrill she felt at his warm breath on her cold hand.

“My friend, I told you, my job is to keep you safe.” Both of his warm, gloved hands closed over her smaller, colder one, the leather smooth and supple, barely hiding the strength beneath. “Having you accosted by ruffians is _not_ in that job description.”

“I didn’t want you to follow me.” She snapped, yanking her hand from his and putting her fists on her hips in an effort to still the tremble he elicited, even after all this time. She felt her face warm in anger. His eyes narrowed and the corners of his full lips turned up appreciatively before he managed to pinch his expression into one of neutrality. She scowled at him. He halted the attempt at neutrality and resumed his wide smile.

“But yet, here I am, my Warden,” he told her, bowing. “Might I suggest we move your camp to less deadly ground?” He gestured at the formerly living brigands.

She surveyed the would-be attackers and apparent slavers. Arguing with Zevran was an exercise in futility when his mind was made up. He was worse than Alistair when he’d decided to do something for her own good. She met his hazel eyes and reminded herself she wasn’t happy with him. Even if, in the twilight, that broad grin he was treating her to was making her heart pound double-time. She sighed. “Fine.” She went to disassemble her tent. Casually, Zevran set about looting the bodies of their valuables. She folded the small, oiled-canvas shelter and frowned. “Do you really have to do that? Aren’t we quite wealthy enough?”

“You have forgotten the first rule of adventuring already, my dear Moira? You never know what you might find.” Zevran walked over, took her hand, and placed five vials of lyrium potions in her palm.

Moira’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline. “Where would common bandits get this much lyrium?”

“That is a mystery for another day, unless you want to keep your handsome king waiting,” he pointed out, sheathing stolen daggers at seemingly random spots around his lithe body.

Moira looked away from watching him, her worried imagination conjuring Alistair in pain as a distraction from Zevran’s charms. And from wondering if she could find those daggers at some point. “Fine. I guess there’s enough daylight left to find somewhere else to sleep,” she looked at Zevran. “You did bring your own tent, didn’t you?” The elf merely looked at her, looking her up and down, quirking an eyebrow at her. He slowly turned and started walking west. She attempted to conrol the race of her heart and the full-body flush that particular look of his brought out her fair skin. Grumbling at her mabari, her tone more for herself than the dog, “Fat lot of good you are. You could have at least told me he was following us!” The dog’s tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth; he was clearly laughing at her. Zevran’s laughter floated back to her.

She followed him through the light dusting of late-season snow, shaking her head. He found a new clearing, a bit smaller than the other one, but it would fit two tents, if he’d brought one. However, with the need to keep watch, only one tent was necessary. They would have to split the night, anyway. It would be better than her original plan of setting wards and waking hourly to check them. She blinked blearily when Zevran offered to take first watch. “I know the signs when you are exhausted, my dear Warden. Perhaps tomorrow a lighter armor would be a better idea?”

She crossed her arms and looked at him. “We’d still have to carry this.”

He looked at the heavy plate and sighed. “And to think I would miss the _very_ unattractive Circle Mage robes.”

Later, alone in the tent, Moira scowled at herself as she unbraided her hair. _One little fight and you’re exhausted? What’s going to happen when you find a real challenge?_ They had a lot of land to cover after the Circle Tower, after all, and they still had to find a ship to take them from either West Hill or Highever. She needed to get her stamina back, fast. She didn’t complain to Zevran, though. Her heart pounded and her mouth went dry at what she knew he'd suggest.

True to his word, though, the assassin woke her in the middle of the night for her shift at watch. She didn’t put her armor on yet, though, preferring the freedom the plain leather she wore under the armor gave her. The early spring night was chilly, but the leather was warm enough. There was time to put the plate mail on later. She sat in the darkness, her eyes tracing the few constellations she still remembered in the clear night sky. The Mabari’s snoring and Zevran’s quiet breathing the only noises.

During the Blight, she'd lost track of how many times she'd stood watch. Especially after their camp had been attacked by Shrieks one night; it had broken any idea that their camp was safe. Even Morrigan had been shaken, her waspish tongue wondering out loud, “What’s next? Darkspawn tax collectors?” Moira had laughed at that, but turned to see Alistair’s troubled gaze. “Camp isn’t safe anymore,” he’d said. “I’m surprised they hadn’t found us before now. You and I might stand out like beacons at this point."

Moira knew Darkspawn were still roaming the countryside in isolated bands, but she hoped she wasn’t quite far enough along in her tainted state to stand out quite as much as Alistair had feared. She remembered Alistair saying they could sense him at only six months after his joining. It had been a year and change, now, for her.

When dawn first stained the horizon with its red glow, Moira went to wake up Zevran. She stuck her head in the tent. In the dim light, his handsome face was peaceful, his full lips were parted, blond hair unbraided and tousled from sleep. The eyes beneath his darkly lashed lids moved rapidly in a dream. He'd pushed the blanket down, baring a great deal of his bronzed, muscular torso. As she watched, it slid still lower as his hips moved in his dream, leaving no doubt as to what he was dreaming of. Her mouth went dry and she wrenched her eyes back up to his face and away from his nearly bared erection. _Oh, Andraste's Ass!_ “Zevran,” she called, in as neutral a voice as she could muster. Trying not to let any of her none-too-pure thoughts affect her tone. The assassin was awake and had a knife out and was kneeling with it pointing at her before she even finished his name. He was also stark naked and still feeling the effects of his dream. Moira kept her eyes on his, her hands clutching his arms as she watched him process friend-or-foe behind those golden eyes, trying very hard not to pay attention to her body's response to him pressed up against her.

She’d fallen for Zevran’s charms once, before Alistair had finally gotten it through his beautifully thick skull the girl mage might like the ex-Templar. Her only real regret had been having to choose between them. Had they all been mages and in the Circle… that choice wouldn’t have been necessary. There would have been other issues with their arrangement, but choosing wouldn’t have been one of them. It had been difficult to let Zevran down. She knew she’d broken his heart, even if he brushed it off. Especially when reminders of the night they shared were pressed up against her right now. She froze, her eyes wide, still holding his gaze, swallowing around the blade at her throat, she noticed a crescent-shaped scar on the top of his shoulder that she didn’t remember. “Uh, Zevran? Can you wake up now? Please?” She risked shifting slightly, off the small rock digging into her kneecap, which made her hip push against him.

His pupils went wide and he let out a low moan before swearing in Antivan. The knife was retracted. Before she could back out of the tent, he pulled her against him, muttering comforting nonsense in his native tongue as he hugged her fiercely. He pulled back to examine her neck, his hazel eyes concerned, still holding his hips against hers. “I did not hurt you, my Warden, did I?”

She struggled to keep her eyes on the back of the tent, on the blankets behind them, on the tip of his right ear. Anywhere but letting herself look down or feel what was still pressed against her. “Zev… clothes?” She sounded a little strangled even to her own ears. “Isn’t it a little cold to be sleeping naked?”

He shrugged, but he still hadn’t let her pull away. “Truth be told, I was but waiting for you to join me,” he moved against her and wiggled his brows.

She shoved at his shoulders. “Get dressed, let’s go. I’ll need your help to put this armor back on.” The corner of his mouth turned up. She laughed. If he was serious, she was walking a fine line between hurting him and remaining his friend. _Let’s face it, that’s not what you want. Greedy._ A band around her chest tightened, then abruptly loosened when he laughed, too.

“Such a harsh taskmistress! Fine, I will put my clothes back on if you will not warm me with your fair body.” He released her and she backed out, shaking her head. Zevran liked to push his boundaries, but where were they really between them?

In the tent, Zevran knelt and closed his eyes. He’d come very close to injuring her and then pushing his boundaries with her. If he forced her to choose again, he knew her choice and he’d be left out in the cold. Yet, he could not leave her, not his Warden. He dressed quickly. The simple truth of the matter was that it was simply more comfortable to sleep naked, even with the chill of a Ferelden spring. He never actually expected her to join him. _Sure. And Isabela wasn't very grateful to be widowed at such a young age._

He got the tent ready to fold up and crawled out to see her trying to reach that last stubborn strap again. She noticed him watching, her hair falling into her face, and she straightened up. She used to keep it much shorter and up in a pony tail. Now it was too long and hung in a mass of raven curls down her back. She’d had it braided yesterday and pinned around her head, she must have unbraided it to sleep. She blew a curl off her forehead and straightened up. _Brosca_ , but he wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers in that wealth of hair. “Help?”

Zevran grinned and walked over to help his Warden.

* * *

 

The campsite had only been a couple days away from the Circle Tower, fortunately. Both were tired of walking. Moira’s feet were beginning to hurt constantly. On the hill over-looking Lake Calenhad, Zevran paused to ask, “Next time we decide to do this, My Warden, may we please get horses?”

“I promise, I will never sneak out of Denerim again without getting horses. Andraste’s ass, my feet are killing me!” She turned to look at him. “In all seriousness, I know I was angry with you at first, Zev. But I’m glad you followed me. Thank you.”

He bowed at the waist, slightly, his long hair falling into his eyes. He hadn't rebraided it since the other morning. “It was my pleasure, my Warden.”

She cocked her head at him, looking at him thoughtfully, “Well, let’s go buy some lyrium.” “

After you, my dear Moira.” He bowed her ahead with a flourish. “We must be certain to visit Oghren on the way out. He will be very upset if we bypass him entirely.”

Moira nodded, squinting into the setting sun. “I planned on it. After all, he’s going to have news of the roads.”

Moira, Zevran, Perrin, and the unkempt and laconic ferryman crossed the lake quickly in the rickety rowboat. Or at least as quickly as a rowboat can row across a large lake. _After years in service and charging higher and higher fares, you’d think the ferryman would invest in a better vessel. Wonder what he’s doing with all the coin?_ She spied a flagon of ale with Oghren’s new tavern’s stamp across the front wedged under the prow of the dinghy. _Mystery solved. I suppose I’d drink, too, if I rowed terrified children to their doom all day every day._ They arrived at the island, the ferryman dumping the visitors without ceremony at the pier. Moira stood looking up at the huge steel doors that she’d spent the first part of her life wanting so much to get out of. When she finally did, she'd been angry and resentful until meeting Alistair.

The doors were intricately embossed with the final minutes of Andraste’s life, her pyre only starting to burn. The heavy steel was the final defense of the world outside against the evil depredations of the mages. Or at least, that’s what the apprentices as children had been told. As she got older, the huge metal doors were fancy prison bars, preventing the mages from seeing the world, experiencing life. _We are weapons. Held at the world’s throat. If the Chantry ordered us to, we would have no choice but to be honed on their behalf and aimed at whatever target they wished._ She shivered. Aloud, she muttered, “‘Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children.’” The catechism rolled off her tongue quickly and automatically. She wondered how many were left in there, after Uldred’s Uprising, who actually cared about what those words meant. She still could not bring herself to hate her old home. Even if it was nothing more than a cage, gilded with hypocrisy and lies. She pounded on the visitor’s door and waited for admittance, catching the look of concern Zevran cast her way out of the corner of her eye. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so, _mi querida_.”

* * *

 

Yet again, the Tower’s visitor hall dwarfed all who entered, making her feel just as small as it did when she’d been brought here as a six-year-old. Hard, cold granite and marble echoed with every footstep, partitions made from ornately twisted silverite and steel disguising the makeshift prison cells the Templars could erect on very short notice. She’d had only the vaguest memories of her life before the Tower. The kind priestess who’d given her her name. The dead boy she’d been found next to in that shed in Denerim. The Templar’s hard black eyes through the slits in his silverite helm, but his kind brown hands when he took off his heavy gauntlets to hold the tiny elf girl in front of him on his horse for the journey west. Even going back there during the Blight didn’t bring up any memories for her.

She nearly walked into a wall-shaped young man with tightly curled blond hair and a short cropped beard around his mouth. Ser Cullen Rutherford stood in front of her; his thick eyebrows drawn into a scowl, glaring at her, his armored arms folded across his chest. This was nothing new for Cullen, he seemed to have been glaring at her since the Uprising. He did his best to hide it, but behind those honey-brown eyes, for those who knew him, like her, well -- the things that had been done to him while in that demonic prison were not something she wanted to think about when she wasn’t worried sick over Alistair. And when she was, they just added fuel to her imagination. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Moira blinked, staring up at him. “Uh… shopping?”

She didn’t know how, but he seemed to scowl even harder. “Not here to help your friend again?” he snarled.

Moira glanced at Zevran who shrugged. “What are you talking about, Cullen?” She asked, tiredly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She wanted to dig Uldred up, resurrect him and kill him all over again. Painfully. There might even be flaying this time.

“My apologies, Warden Commander,” Greagoir’s voice prevented Cullen from answering. The Kinloch Hold Knight Commander walked around one of the pillars and nodded a greeting at her. His hair had gotten even more white than it had been before the Battle of Denerim. “We’ve been rather tense of late.” He looked pointedly at the younger man in armor still glaring down at Moira.

The elf mage crossed her arms and looked up at the man who’d been part comfort, part terror and almost foster father for most of her childhood. “Not more abominations?” She really didn’t want to go through that again. At least not without Alistair and a dozen more Templars at her back. And not the unstable one standing in front of her.

Greagoir smiled without humor, the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkling. _Maker’s breath, how old was he now? How long before the lyrium started taking its toll? No, do not think about it._ “Not quite as bad as all that, I promise. Irving would like to meet with you, however.” The Templar glanced at Zevran, “His Majesty still in Denerim?” “

Long story.” Moira replied. She looked up at Greagoir. He’d been kinder to her than any Templar should have been when she’d first arrived. How he could remotely be friends with Irving was a mystery. “I’ll explain later.” _Maybe_ , she added silently because whatever she told Greagoir was likely to end up known by the wiley First Enchanter.

She glanced at Cullen, who had transferred his scowl to his superior officer. Greagoir noticed the younger man’s anger and sighed. “Ser Cullen, please return to your duties.” Under his beard, the younger man's wide mouth took on a bitter cast and he somehow managed to make the hand-over-heart salute sarcastic before turning to resume standing guard at the entrance to the tower proper.

Instead of going directly to Irving's office, however, Greagoir led them through the Templar barracks on the first floor toward his office. Moira didn't miss the way the men and the few women in service lining the halls stood up straighter and saluted automatically as their commanding officer walked past. She also didn't miss how conspicuously Zevran kept his hands in plain sight. She arched an eyebrow at him in question and he jerked his head at the tense looks the Templars were giving her. The ones she'd grown so used to, she barely noticed. She shrugged and kept her eyes forward, on Greagoir's armored back. The hallway was far too familiar. She'd been down this way a time or two as a child as Greagoir would occasionally give her or Jowan respite from a bully or three. Or because she'd gone a little too far in her own reprisals against those bullies.

Ushering them into her office, he even waited for Perrin to trot in and sit on his haunches in the cramped confines. Zevran took up a spot leaning against the door. Greagoir motioned for her to sit, "I'd rather not. Full plate's not all that comfortable, as I'm sure you're aware."

The older man chuckled. "I don't wear it often. There's something to be said for a Templar's skirt." His eyes narrowed, the crows' feet becoming more pronounced. "How are you able to carry the weight? Surely you haven't grown that strong so quickly?"

Moira smiled. "While I have indeed been training, it is an old discipline. One we discovered during the Blight. I can use a blade to fight alongside any Knight of the Order if necessary."

Greagoir steepled his fingers together under his chin. "I assume you're familiar with the discipline of the Knight Enchanter?" When she nodded, he continued, "It seems similar, but Irving doesn't teach it here in Kinloch, preferring to concentrate on the Healing arts. I thought you were also trying to learn those before you left? Have you given up on the life of a healer entirely?"

Moira frowned at him in consternation. Really, he had no real reason to ask this, not since her Conscription. Once he'd allowed Irving to manipulate her and Jowan down the path that led to that, all right to even pretend to guide her as he once had, he'd lost. "Does it truly matter, Greagoir?"

He sighed and ran one gauntleted hand over his face. "I have done nothing but regret that day for the past year, Moira. I know enough about Grey Wardens to know... what awaits you." He pressed his hands flat on the desk and met her eyes. "I couldn't find a way around it. Surely a Grey Warden's life is preferable to Aeonar?"

Thinking of the friend behind her, the dog at her feet, the man she was headed to try to drag out of Weisshaupt, and the country they'd pieced back together out of whole cloth, she closed her eyes and nodded. _If not for the screaming death waiting for me in the Deep Roads and the infertility, sure._ She didn't answer his question. "When did you carry out Jowan's sentence?"

"That's the thing." The Knight Commander pinched the bridge of is nose. "Irving is going to tell you we were using him to ferret out Blood Mages. And to a certain extent we were. He was working on a new way to question suspects involving a false dream."

"But..."

"But," and the Commander sighed, "I'm afraid some of Ser Cullen's ire is deserved in that I was far too lenient on the boy due to my feelings of guilt about you and about Cullen. He's disappeared. I doubt he's... escaped."

Moira sighed. "This is Jowan. He couldn't escape if you handed him a map and a free pass."

"My feeling exactly. He only came close to succeeding the first time because you helped him." Greagoir gave her a frank look from under his heavy brows. She ignored his censure. She'd do it all again but this time, she'd succeed. "So, Jowan is missing instead of executed, Cullen is rabid and unstable.... Any good news?"

Greagoir leaned back in his chair, "The dwarva you sent us is remarkably cheerful, very intelligent, and I'm in awe of her theories, but I'm worried about her. I fear to what use her inventions will be put to." Moira rubbed her forehead and glanced back at Zevran who leaned back against the door and nonchalantly appeared to be dozing against the heavy wood while standing upright with his arms crossed. A subtle twitch of his fingers against his left biceps let her know, however, that it was a ruse and he was as alert as ever. Turning back to Greagoir, she shook her head. "You and Irving were always at loggerheads, but you eventually saw eye to eye. Hell, I won't even tell you the rumors that spawned among the apprentices." Greagoir chuckled. "But you've rarely been this suspicious of his motives before."

He shrugged. "I can't put my finger on it. But since the Incident, he seems... afraid. That's all I can call it. Maker knows I have my own share of nightmares. We all do. Templars and mages alike, all of us who survived. Everyone except the Tranquil, of course. Never thought I'd envy one of them." Moira yanked her own memory away from the Uprising. Going back to that would just make her freeze when it counted.

"Right." There was something the older man wanted and he wasn't getting to the point. "Zev? Could you wait outside?" She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She looked back again to see the assassin's face go carefully blank.

"If you are certain that is wise, _Chancellor_ ," he said, bowing slightly. The reminder of her more politically sensitive title was for Greagoir, she knew.

"Thank you, Zev. I'll be safe. And you'll be right outside the door." She met his eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. He nodded and left through the plain wooden door, silently.

"Antivan Crow, I take it?" Greagoir asked, leaning back from his desk.

"You are remarkably well-informed for a Knight-Commander in a backwater Fereldan Circle."

"You know I only take an interest because it's you and because of, well... Never mind." He looked away.

"Greagoir," she paused, meeting his eyes. He was tired. She could tell. Tired of the politics, tired of the emotional walls. Tired of having to cut himself off from half of anyone he cared about because they were born different. Just then, she hated the Circle, the Chantry, everything to do with her former life. "If things were different..."

"You'd have been reared with your elven family in an alienage and I would never have known you. Nor have gotten the chance to be proud of you, girl. Don't start. You know better." He gripped the arms of his chair so hard the wood creaked. "Regardless. When the time comes, retire to Denerim. Or, if you wish, Alistair has thought about gifting Amaranthine to the Wardens. There'll be a place there for you. Do not go to Greendelle."

He blinked. "That's...kind of you, Moira. I'll consider it." He cleared his throat. "But that's not why you sent your man away."

She cocked her head at him, acknowledging his point, not the assumption that Zevran was "her man." "Why did you really detour me?"

His tired eyes regarded her steadily. "Irving is going to ask you to hunt down Jowan and bring him back. Right now, I'm going to ask you to go against his request. Hunt him down, yes. But recruit him. Conscript him. Bring him to whatever justice you see fit. Just do not bring him back here. The spell he was inventing... it's monstrous. Unethical." If that spell was as bad as Greagoir feared, Irving had let his fear get the better of him. She met his eyes and nodded. He didn't continue right away, however, he paused as if building for another favor she'd find even more unpleasant or refuse out of hand. No matter what had transpired between them at her Conscription, he was still the man who'd done his best to stand between her and the incessant bullying as one of the few elven apprentices in Kinloch Hold. It must be one hell of a favor for him to hesitate this much. "Take Ser Cullen with you." He held up a hand to forestall her protests as her mouth fell open in astonishment. "I know. He's not well. I'm supposed to send him to Greendelle." She closed her teeth with a click. The Templar retirement home? Where, what? He'd navel-gaze for a few months? A year? Have his fears confirmed and reinforced as the Maker's Will? Apparently, she'd glared at Greagoir. He chuckled. "I see you have the same opinion of that course of action as I do." He leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk. "He sees Blood Mages around every corner. He's not sleeping, he's barely eating. He's vocal about further restrictions for every mage in the Tower, especially the survivors. I'm afraid of what he'll do if he stays here. Does that sound like the Cullen you knew?"

She shivered. He sounded rabid. She knew he wasn't well but that was... "And what can I do? He attacks me, I'll kill him. You want him put out of his misery that badly, do it yourself, Greagoir. I will not do yours nor Irving's dirty work again." She clenched her trembling fists. She'd come awfully close to frosting through her gauntlets. Something she hadn't done since she was a novice.

"I want him to have a _chance_. Greendelle won't do that for him. He was a good Templar once. A good man. I thought you were friends?" There was a pleading note in the Knight Commander's voice she hadn't heard in a long time. He'd been disappointed and resigned when she'd been Conscripted. As if Irving's gambit would have had any other outcome, once Duncan had shown up. The time she heard that note in his voice, he was asking her to save as much of the Circle as she could during the Uprising.

"We were. I'm pretty sure he hates me now for not Cleansing the Circle." She knotted her fingers together. Thoughts of Cullen before the Conscription were beginning to make her stomach hurt.

"He'll get over it." Greagoir leaned back in his chair again, certain he had her, now.

Moira stood. "I'll take him only if he agrees. Tell him his choices. I'm not recruiting the unwilling. I'm not Duncan."

Greagoir smiled. "Understood."

* * *

Zevran wasn't happy about being sent out of the room, but fell in behind her when she whispered a promise to fill him in later. Fortunately, the four-story climb to Irving's office didn't take as long as it used to seem to. Of course, the palace in Denerim had far more staircases than Kinloch Hold. She'd gotten used to running up and down them since Alistair's coronation.

First Enchanter Irving's office still smelled of old books, dust, candle wax, mint, the vague ozone of magic, and the indefinable scent of the terror of generations of apprentices called in for punishment. The First Enchanter stood up from his heavy desk, leaning slightly on the flat surface for support. "Chancellor, good to see you! I am glad you came to visit. But first, to what do we owe the honor?"

"First Enchanter," she inclined her head. "I was hoping to buy some lyrium. Enough for myself for a long journey." Greagoir crossed to stand next to Irving's desk and held himself at parade rest -- his hands clasped behind him, his feet shoulder-width apart -- his face held as blank as only decades of discipline in the Templar Order could make it.

"Oh?" Irving rasped. His voice had never really quite recovered. His neck had suffered damage as he was dangled from the fist of Uldred's Pride demon during the Uprising. It had taken too long to get Wynne and her Healing ability to him. "Where are you headed? Can Ferelden really do without her Chancellor?"

Moira spread her hands and put on as sad a look as she could muster. She hated Irving's games, and could never forget his part in her exile. "I'm afraid my little errand is King's business, First Enchanter."

The older mage nodded. "Well, however we can help His Majesty. I'm sure a discount is even in order for the Hero of Ferelden." He tilted his head as if noticing she wasn't in mage robes for the first time. "Is that heavy plate you're wearing?"

"It is."

"How is that possible?" He asked, glancing at Greagoir. The Templar kept his eyes on Moira and gave no reaction to Irving's question.

Moira shrugged, keeping her expression bored. "It's an old Elvhen discipline we discovered during the Blight. Uses up a great deal of my mana to remain armored. Hence the need for lyrium." It was a small lie, but best to underscore the drawbacks to this discipline and let the Chantry keep the weaker Knight Enchanter. She used more mana to Heal than to remain armored; using both together was draining, but not unmanageable.

Irving’s eyebrows raised, “Most interesting,” was all he said. She could see Greagoir looking at her again, his face still carefully blank. “Is the use of swords part of that ability?” Irving's predatory eyes were sharp, his rasping voice still attempting to persuade, however.

“Yes,” she responded, tersely.

Irving's smile was smooth and oily. “Maybe one day you could return to the Tower and pass that knowledge along." _Sure, when the Veil collapses and the moons fall into the sea._ "But, come, I didn’t ask to see you just to chat about dusty paths of scholarship, child.” He gestured to a chair in front of his desk. “Will your friend? Be joining us?” The hesitation on the word "friend" made her want to scowl. It was better than her "man," though.

Pointedly, she turned to look at the assassin, “Zevran, would you like to stay, or have a look around since you’ve never been to the Tower before?” Zevran looked at her, an eyebrow raised.

The former Crow considered what his Grey Warden asked. He gauged the two older human men and decided if they got tetchy, she could teach them a lesson or three without his help. Her meeting with them was liable to last a while with Moira verbally fencing with the First Enchanter. “I do believe you are correct; I haven’t seen Ferelden’s Circle Tower. I would like to look around, very much, yes.”

“Please take Perrin with you, Zevran. I’m sure he’d be bored sitting here with us.” He nodded at her, accepting her coded reasoning that she expected more trouble for him than herself, even if he disagreed. That was a Templar standing next to that desk, after all, and an experienced one at that, no matter her history with the man that he'd sensed. She motioned to Perrin to follow the assassin. The dog and elf left the First Enchanter’s office as Moira sat down across from her old mentor. Zevran glanced back as she took the seat in front of the desk. He raised his eyes to meet the Knight Commander's. The old Templar inclined his head as Zevran merely looked at him steadily, his implication plain. _If anything should happen to her, old man...._

As he allowed the door to close behind him, the scuff of a boot on stone alerted him to another armed wall of a man. Of course, Cullen of the ever-so-handsome-scowl was lurking outside the First Enchanter’s office. _Hoping to yell at my Moira, perhaps? She is not yours. Shut up._ The Templar loomed over the elf in an attempt to intimidate him. Zevran allowed the condescending smirk to play about his lips that so irritated Alistair. The King was almost as attractive when annoyed as his Warden. “Come, my Templar friend, give me the grand tour. The Warden will be busy for a while, yes?” He swept his arms in a flourish. Which, coincidentally, brought his hand close enough to one of his hidden daggers to palm it should he need to.

“I am not your friend,” Cullen replied sullenly, brown eyes flicking toward the heavy door. “

Are you not an old friend of the Warden?” Zevran glanced down at the Mabari. The dog’s hackles were raised, but he hadn’t growled yet. _What an astute judge of character you are_ , the assassin thought. “Any friend of hers, well…,” he let the sentence trail off with a shrug.

The Templar's broad shoulders slumped slightly. “You aren’t the one who was here with her before.”

Zevran started walking, feeling his shoulder blades itch from the younger man's glare. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised, “Are you speaking of Ferelden’s new king, perhaps?”

Cullen's eyes slid to the side, his cheeks coloring slightly, “Nevermind.”

Zevran grinned to himself briefly, “Come, walk with me. You may tell me, privately, of your reservations about the Grey Warden’s taste in men.” Perrin walked at Zevran’s side, quite obviously watching the Templar out of the corner of his eye. The dog's panting hid his watchfulness. Zevran didn’t trust the young man either; he approved the dog’s caution. The Templar reluctantly caught up to them.

* * *

 

Moira watched her friend and her Mabari leave, then sat down across from Irving. Greagoir continued to stand where he was next to the First Enchanter's desk. “All right, let’s cut to the chase, gentlemen. What do you need?” She wished she’d insisted on time to change out of her armor before this meeting. Sitting in steel was just uncomfortable. But she'd learned in her brief time at court and here in this Circle to not show just how uncomfortable she was.

Irving cleared his throat, “I’m glad you traveled this way, though I guess it’s only to buy a large amount of lyrium.” He smiled. “But, we have a favor to ask of you.”

Moira resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Here it comes_ , she thought to herself. She was glad Greagoir had warned her. “What can I help you with, First Enchanter?”


	3. Singing Out Of Tune

**Chapter 3: Singing Out Of Tune**

Irving shifted uncomfortably, his gaudy blue and gold First Enchanter’s robes rustling on the wooden chair, “It seems your friend Jowan has escaped from us again.” _And there it is._ Moira resisted the urge to sigh.

She allowed her jaw to drop instead. “You’ve got to be joking.” Greagoir kept his face blank. Not for the first time, Moira wished Wynne hadn’t gone gallivanting off after Shale to help the golem regain her mortal form. The Tower could use her quiet competence and Irving needed to retire. Especially if Greagoir was correct and he was allowing fear and politics to rule the tower, not actual leadership. “How, by Andraste’s Ass, did you allow that piece of brilliance to occur?”

Irving stood up, angrily, his heavy brows drawn together. Greagoir merely stepped to one side, making it clear he would not interfere. “You will remember to whom you are speaking, child!”

Moira stood up and matched Irving's glare, despite his advantage in height. She planted her armored fists on his desk and leaned forward. Through clenched teeth she snarled, “And _you_ will remember to whom _you_ are speaking, First Enchanter!”

Greagoir put an armored hand on the First Enchanter’s shoulder, attempting to calm the older mage as his color turned bright red and a vein stood out on his wizened neck. “Anger will help no one, First Enchanter.” To Moira, the Templar quietly explained what Jowan had been doing, revealing nothing of their earlier meeting.

“Let me guess, you believe he used blood magic to confuse his guards and took off.” Moira crossed her arms over her chest, her anger growing. Jowan wasn't nearly that competent. She was glad Greagoir had been smart enough to see that. Either Irving actually did, or thought she was a fool to be led about by the nose. Neither spoke well of the First Enchanter or his opinion of her.

“Not exactly, no. We don’t think he did the confusing. We think he was either kidnapped, or broken out,” Greagoir told her. Though the idea that another Maleficar could infiltrate the Tower to drag Jowan out was troubling in and of itself. Irving snorted, giving his opinion of the Templar's determination.

“Either way, that means there’s a blood mage in the tower you two and Jowan didn’t know about." She scrubbed her face. "But then why not just kill him in revenge for ratting out the others?”

Irving seemed to master his temper, the red color receding from his face and neck. “I do not know,” he said, sighing and beginning to pace. “At this point, all of this is only speculation." He glared at Greagoir as if to make a point. "If Jowan were in on whatever plot there was, perhaps they were only using him to get rid of the weaker members of their sick fraternity. If he wasn’t, perhaps they took him for revenge and plan to use him in some sort of blood mage rite.” She noted the First Enchanter said nothing about the spell Greagoir had filled her in on. That achievement in and of itself would be reason to kidnap him. Though the idea of Jowan creating something that complex was startling. If he was competent enough to create that spell, he was competent enough to break himself out. However, the last time she saw him, escape had been the furthest thing from his mind. _Let the two of them believe what they wanted._

Moira smirked, “Knowing Jowan, it’s probably the second. I loved him like a brother, but I was the one coming up with the ways to get into trouble while were growing up.” Greagoir stifled a chuckle behind a polite cough. She cleared her throat. “Fine I’ll keep an eye out for him, but I’m on far more urgent business at the moment." She glanced at Greagoir. The old Templar closed his eyes and nodded. "I want something in exchange besides a better deal on lyrium. Give me Cullen. Release him from his vows, don't send him to Greendelle. He's obviously not getting better here, surrounded by the site of so much pain."

Greagoir and Irving exchanged a glance, “About Cullen,” Irving began.

Moira braced herself. “What about him?”

“Cullen has become increasingly harsh with the mages." Irving's sharp-eyed stare seemed to try to penetrate her armor. "Too harsh. He seems to think all mages are blood mages, except you, for some reason.”

"Before I was Conscripted, we were friends. As much as a Templar and an Apprentice can be friends." Moira pointed out, glancing at Greagoir. "Perhaps that still means something to him, even through the trauma."

Greagoir coughed into his hand. “I took the liberty of looking into options for the boy. The Revered Mother has already agreed to release him from his vows. I fear for his sanity if he stays.”

Not for the first time, she missed Leliana. What the former bard and assassin would have to say about her collecting misfits again would have been amusing. But the Orlesian woman was off hunting down her former lover and employer, Marjolaine. At least that's what she said she was doing. The layers of intrigue and lies in this room could have used her old friend's astute insights.

“Do I have leave to Conscript him?” she asked, quietly.

Both men looked troubled. “If you have to,” Greagoir said, his voice sad.

Irving shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure what you need with a Templar, vows or no vows, but if you do require his Conscription, I'm certain you'll do the right thing, Moira." _No, Irving, you just don't care what happens to a Templar. Especially one that tried to beg me to Annul the Circle. Even if he wouldn't have in a million ages before Uldred._ She kept her face blank.

Moira resigned herself. “All right. I want four pounds of Lyrium dust and Cullen in order to go out of my way to find Jowan and the rest of these Blood Mages. After all, I assume Cullen’s addicted. And I’ll need my own supply.”

Irving blanched. “Four?” he exclaimed. Moira noticed he didn’t ask how she knew Templars were addicts. Apparently, the Chantry assumed Alistair had been telling trade secrets.

Greagoir, however, nodded. “What you ask is reasonable. I assume you’re going on a long journey to need that much.”

“You could say that. I’d rather not go into details, though. It is, after all, King’s business.” She sat back down in her chair, knotting her fingers together to calm the trembling.

Greagoir nodded. Irving was still sputtering over the lyrium. “We’ll take our leave in the morning, then. Should I tell Cullen, or will you?” She looked at Greagoir.

“I will tell him,” Greagoir said. "It will be better if it's an order." _He's not going to like it either way, Old Man. Being a Templar was... no... **is**....his life._

She cocked her head at them and stood. “Good, I expect to leave at first light,” the two men glanced at each other and then nodded. “I assume my friend and I will have rooms? Or do we need to go back across the lake?”

Irving shook his head. “No need to disturb the ferryman. I’ll send an apprentice to you as soon as guest quarters are available. You’ll be in the great hall, then?"

“There, or the library.” Moira said. Once again, Moira missed Wynne. She doubted she’d have had to ask for a room for the night for both of them, Wynne would have had them ready upon Moira darkening the Tower door.

She turned to leave and found Zevran standing outside the doorway, Cullen looming and glowering behind him. She met the assassin’s eyes and in that short hand of old friends, each knew the other had news and it was probably bad. Greagoir’s voice called out, “Cullen, we would like to speak with you.” The young Templar glared at Moira as they passed, his lips thinning in a tight line behind his beard. Moira sighed.

Zevran and Perrin followed the Grey Warden as she walked quickly away from the First Enchanter’s office. They arrived at the Great Hall, one level above the office. “I would really love it if they gave us a room soon, Zev. I’m tired of wearing this armor.” She shook her head slightly to indicate that they shouldn’t discuss what they’d found out while separated. Zevran, puzzled, but trusting her instincts, instincts that were nearly as paranoid as his own, flopped down beside her, regretting the armor almost as much as she. They sat in silence, the Mabari at their feet.

He was content to wait on her, though. He wondered, however, when she’d gotten so much more suspicious. Had he influenced her that much, or had it been their travels? He knew Orzammar had been hard on her, and had changed her outlook dramatically. But the biggest change had come after her venture into the Deep Roads. He’d followed her and Alistair, not trusting either the disgraced dwarf warrior nor the free golem to keep either of them safe. _He and Leliana had actually flipped a coin over which of them would go -- the best two out of three -- until Wynne grabbed the coin and sent him. "I've heard rumors, disturbing rumors... Leliana shouldn't go. We'll leave it at that."_

_Hespith and the Broodmother, well... After killing the monstrosity Branka had allowed one of her people to become, Moira, injured though she was, crawled to the nearest corner and threw up everything she'd ever eaten. She wouldn't let Alistair comfort her, pushing him away. Her black hair hanging in messy strings in her face, her blue eyes like bruises, she'd pushed herself up on her arms and over onto her back on a stalagmite. Alistair was still hovering, concern and horror written on his handsome face. Zevran, had an idea, however of what she was about to demand. She grabbed her fellow Grey Warden by his breastplate and pulled him closer to her. "I am not going to die down here and add to their numbers. I will not." She grated out through clenched teeth. "When the time comes...."_

_From his angle, Zevran could see the agony cross Alistair's features. "You can't ask me to --"_

_"If the alternative is that?" She demanded, gesturing to the stinking bulk of the corpse._

_Alistair visibly trembled and rested his head on her armored chest. Her bloody hand went to his sweat matted hair, tangling in it as she blinked the tears from her eyes. She let her head flop back against the stone as he responded, slightly muffled. "I can't kill you. I've been wondering myself the whole time, ever since we met Hespith. I -- can't."_

_Zevran crouched down next to them, wincing inwardly at Alistair's wary eyes and Moira's pained, bruised ones and tried to ignore the flutter of jealousy behind his heart. "There is another way. If you truly wish it. And you could still die as a Grey Warden. There are poisons. Painless, even. Kill as many as you can and when you can fight no more, you take the poison and you sleep until your heart stops. No monstrosities."_

_Moira held her free hand out to him, and he clicked his tongue at her in concern at the tremble in her fingers. "But you must heal yourself, my Warden, or there is continuing at all."_

_The night after emerging from the Deep Roads and destroying the Anvil, Alistair and Moira had merely sat in their quarters within Orzammar provided them by the Treaties, not talking, just sitting as close as two people could, his arm around her. "Are you certain Bhelen is the one you wish to crown?" Zevran had asked._

_"Harrowmont holds to his honor and the old ways far too tightly," Moira told him, her voice quiet as she stared into the fire. "The missing Aeducan princess could break the stalemate, or cause a civil war this city can't afford if she were found alive. Frankly, they're both terrible and I'd rather hand the crown to her if I could find her. But I can't." She sighed. "The casteless cannot continue to bear the brunt of this city's burdens. Harrowmont would crush them further in the name of tradition. Bhelen might actually give them a chance."_

When Harrowmont paid with his life for her decision, however, her eyes hollowed further and Zevran found her staying up most nights past second watch, staring into the fire, Alistair asleep with his head in her lap. He wasn't sure whether the Broodmother or her own reflection in the mirror had become his Warden’s greatest nightmare. When he thought about it, he marked Orzammar as the turning point in both Wardens’ outlooks on life. They’d stopped being idealistic and were, well, Wardens. The change in Alistair had been welcome. The change in Moira had been heartbreaking. She had already had eyes that had seen too much. Now, in her unguarded moments, they reflected back her own horror at what she felt her life had become. He leaned over and briefly touched his lips to her hair. Startled, she jerked her head back to look up at him, dark brows drawn together. He gave her his best leer to hide his concern for her. He was relieved when she rolled her eyes at him and snorted.

A young boy ran up to them as they sat silently on the bench. Moira had allowed Zevran to put his arm across the back and he'd idly wound her jet hair through his fingers. The apprentice bowed and stammered, “Chancellor Warden Commander, Ma’am, MiLady Surana? Your rooms are ready for you?” Zevran smiled at the number of titles he’d given the elf mage.

Grinning as well, she got to her feet and told the child, “Thank you, please lead us there?” The child paled, bowed and turned so quickly, he almost tripped over his own feet.

Zevran looked at his Warden as he languidly stood and stretched. “I find it difficult to believe you might ever have been so ungainly, my Warden.”

Moira laughed. “Worse, I’d have fallen on my face. When Duncan came for me, I tripped and fell into him. I’m surprised he still recruited me, after that, to this day.” She grinned in memory, “Leliana taught me to dance. You and Alistair taught me to fight. It helped the clumsiness. A lot.”

“That would have been a wonderful sight to behold,” Zevran told her.

She snorted and shook her head, rubbing her pointed ear. "Which part, the clumsiness or the dancing lessons?"

"Both," he told her with a teasing leer.

 

* * *

 

Looking around the guest quarters, she realized she was in the very chamber Duncan had stayed in when he recruited her. She hadn’t known the man long before he'd changed her life forever, just the few days he was here. But it had been long walk to Ostagar, where all she did was brood every night in front of the fire. During the day, she'd rail against Jowan’s betrayal of the Circle, Greagoir's betrayal of her, and how anyone could possibly suspect her of blood magic. Duncan had born her ill temper and her complete inability to deal with being outdoors with equanimity.

_When she'd wound down on one of her tirades, slapping at bitemes and trying in vain to save her flimsy Circle boots from mud, he'd asked her, his tone mild, "Are you more upset at your friend's betrayal of you, or the Circle?"_

_She'd stood still, looking at his back as he disappeared into the distance ahead of her. "He lied to me!" She had to run, painfully, through her fresh blisters, to catch up to him to make sure he heard her. But she caught up to him to shout, "He lied to me! If he'd told me, been honest..."_

_Duncan had turned then, and arched a heavy brow at her. "And then what? You'd have helped him anyway? Taught him the error of his ways? Prayed to Andraste for his soul? Or turned him in and hoped his sin didn't also taint you as it did eventually?"_

_"Does it matter? He didn't trust me and now we'll never know." She crossed her arms and glared at the Grey Warden._

_"If it helps you, believe that all you want. But would you have risked Greagoir's affections for Jowan's?" He stood with his arms crossed, waiting for her to think about it._

_She glared up at him. "Greagoir is a Templar. Jowan is a mage. I -- " She remembered closing her mouth with a click. Jowan hadn't had any choice. She didn't think she would have turned him in. But... Blood Magic? Could she have forgiven Jowan that?_

_At Redcliffe, before they'd taken him away, she'd asked for a moment alone. For once, in just a plain brown tunic and tan leggings, her robes airing out after being cleaned, being readied for the long trek to find the Ashes. "Jowan, run. Please. I'll tell them you hit me. Surprised me. Just go. They'll kill you or ... worse." The word "Tranquil" hung between them, unspoken._

_Jowan sat down heavily, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. "Moira... I... can't run any more. You're the strong one. You always have been. I should have trusted you. Showed you the book when I found it. Told you about Uldred's meetings...." He scrubbed at his pale face and rubbed at his already reddened eyes. "But I believed him. Believed what he said about y-- about any mage who made friends with Templars."_

_Moira's eyes widened and her eyebrows rose. "Are you -- did he call me a_ collaborator _? Because Greagoir was kind to me? And by the way, to_ you _. And who else,_ Cullen _?"_

_"I -- that came out wrong." He covered his face with his hands._

_"I certainly hope so."_

_"I know he was kind to both of us." Moira waited while Jowan struggled to try to gather his thoughts, dropping his hands to his legs and rubbing them against his robed. "Greagoir is still a Templar, Moira. You don't know what it was li--"_

_She stood up, she had to move away or she would hit him. "I don't know what it was like? I am an elf, Jowan. And a mage. Are you tru--" She held up a hand, unable to speak for moment. She glared at him when he opened his mouth. "No._ You _don't get to speak. In a Tower of what? Seventy-five Templars? Two treated me as if I weren't a fuck-toy? Two? And by the way, that began as early as the age of_ nine. _I was nine the first time a Templar thought I was old enough to toy with. Greagoir put a stop to it. Greagoir. The one you're calling me a collaborator for 'being friends with?' He stopped your own 'little problem' as you call it, didn't he?" Jowan had the grace to look uncomfortable. "So yes, he's more than a friend. He's the closest thing you or I will ever have to a father."_

_Jowan swallowed as if he would be ill. "He's still a Templar."_

_She pinched the bridge of her nose. "And you're still a jackass. He tucked us in at night when he could. Woke us from nightmares when we cried, shielded us from bullies, Templar and student alike. Greagoir was the only kind Templar growing up in that hell. Or have you forgotten that? Yes, he watches us for signs of abomination, but frankly, I'd rather die than give in to a demon, wouldn't you? I certainly wouldn't want to hurt any innocent bystanders! Like, oh, I don't know... an entire village?" He didn't answer right away and Moira lowered her hand to stare at him. "Jowan?"_

_"I -- Of course not. I -- Moira, did Uldred really try to take over?" His eyes were a little too bright, his face flushed beneath his usual sallow complexion._

_Moira shook her head, disgust roiling in her own stomach. "He tortured everyone, Jowan. Everyone. Templars, mages, Niall, Irving, Cullen.... If you weren't with him, you were against him." She turned, her armor creaking slightly as she paced away. "He allowed the demons to trap so many... I suppose I should thank you. Remember Solona Amell? The one they claimed would be Irving's replacement one day? Cullen watched her die as she held off a room full undead for a group of children to escape before he and his squad fought his way up. There was nothing he could do. I found her body. What was left of it. Had I been there? I'd be dead. Or insane."_

_"And that's why I'm not running away," Jowan's voice was muffled. Frowning, Moira turned around to find Jowan had buried his face in his hands again. "I should have come to you. To Greagoir, to Irving. Told someone about Uldred. I could have stopped it. All of it. But I thought if I escaped, they couldn't make me talk, couldn't make me turn him in."_

_"Or he'd have killed you. And gone ahead with his plan anyway." She sighed, crossing back to him to pull his hands away from his face. She held them in both of hers, despite their larger size. Her smaller fingers cold against the warmth of his. "What's done is done. You wouldn't have prevented Uldred's Uprising. Loghain coordinated it with him! Planned your poisoning of Eamon quite brilliantly. As coups go, this is quite an efficient one, I think. Rumor has it, he's even taken out the Couslands of Highever."_

_Jowan stared at her, blinking in surprise. "In the middle of a Blight?"_

_Her mouth twisted wryly. "He doesn't admit there is one." She sighed. "If you won't run, I'll write to Irving and Greagoir asking for clemency. You did help here."_

_Jowan shook his head. "Don't. Please, Moira. I accept my fate."_

_She met his eyes then. Her heart breaking, she tried to blink back the tears. "No. You're... my brother."_

_"I know. And you're my sister. And I've screwed up your life enough. I-- I'm sorry, Moira." He glanced away, tears shining in his own eyes. "About Lily..."_

_She nodded, wiping at her eyes. "I'll do what I can. No one deserves Aeonar. Not even you. No matter what you might think."_

_"I don't think Aeonar will be in my future, Moi." He shuddered. She tried not to imagine his forehead with the sunburst sigil. She scrubbed at her face, hoping to scrub the burning behind her eyes away. She wanted to throw herself at him and cling to his neck and beg him to run away again. But she could almost see that damned sunburst there, above his grey eyes, dead and expressionless. She let anger chase the despair away._

_"Andraste's Ass, Jowan! No! You can't let them do that to you! I -- I'll conscript you! Yes! We need Wardens anyway...." She started pacing, again, mentally rehearsing her perfectly reasonable arguments as to why Jowan should be allowed to Join the Order at the first opportunity._

_"Moira!" His hands were bigger than her shoulders, they always had been and he used them to clasp hers now and stop her pacing and turn her. She looked at up his sallow, tear-stained face. "They won't let you. You're not Duncan. And I'm not you."_

_"You can't give up!"_

_Jowan shook his head. "It's not giving up, Moira. These people deserve justice. And I let that little boy down. Connor deserves justice."_

_Anger still bubbled inside her. "This is not justice. This is finding a scapegoat. Had Isolde done what she should have, these people would still be alive. And I would still be going to seek the Ashes. Your involvement was immaterial. Loghain would have found someone else!"_

_Jowan shrugged. "They're nobles, Moi. They don't follow the same rules."_

Jowan was right; nobles didn't follow the same rules. Her influence as Chancellor and The Hero of Ferelden, or better yet, Alistair's as King, had to get Lily out of prison at some point. She’d written to the Revered Mother in Denerim, but had only gotten a polite dismissal to stay out of Chantry business. But the Reverend Mother wasn't the only official in the Chantry. If all else failed, once she'd gotten Alistair back from Weisshaupt, she’d take up prison breaking as a hobby and get Lily out of Aeonar. Maybe grab her phylactery on the way. Jowan and Lily were problems for a different day; now, it was time to find out what Zevran had discovered.

Moira sighed and stretched. It had been wonderful to get out of that armor. She felt lighter in every step and every limb. She didn’t put on her mage’s robes, however. They were equally as uncomfortable. Instead, she’d donned a plain white linen shirt with sleeves gathered at the wrists, a grey leather vest and soft woolen trousers dyed to match. Her short black boots that stopped at her ankles and went over thick wool socks kept her constantly cold feet warm in the drafty Tower. She'd been working on adding the armoring runes and fabrics to seemingly plain clothing. It didn't always work, but the vest at least had been somewhat successful and gave her a small boost to her concentration. Perrin had made himself right at home after sniffing every corner of the room. He was now on his back on the large bed, all four paws in the air, snoring loudly.

Zevran appeared at her door not ten seconds after she'd finished dressing. Standing in the doorway, he leaned nonchalantly upon on upraised forearm and looked her up and down, smiling slowly. Moira smirked and rolled her eyes. "Come in."

As he passed, he swept her into an embrace, pulling her tight against him, trapping her hands against his chest. Startled, she stared at him, wide eyed, her heart pounding _._ _He was so close! All I have to do is tilt my head and lean forward just a little and I can... No. Don't even think it._ She clutched at his black linen shirt, feeling the strength in his pectorals. She flattened her hands against his chest and felt his heartbeat, strong, steady. Those full lips twisted up at the corners and his hazel eyes narrowed in amusement. He splayed his hand against the small of her back, put one leg between hers and dipped her backward, his arms holding her tightly against him. This close, held this tightly, he winked at her and she laughed, leaning her head forward onto his shoulder. "You, mi carina, are entirely too serious." He turned his head until she could feel his breath on her sensitive pointed ear. "Do tell me you at least checked the room?"

 _Ah, that explained the theatrics._ "I did, and Perrin sniffed every corner. It might be better if you take a look, though," she whispered against his. Did she imagine the slight tremble she felt? Or the shift in his hips? The quickening of his heart?

He stood her upright, but not before she could have sworn he pressed his lips against her ear, sending a lightning strike of need straight to her core. __Dammit, Zevran_. _ She pushed the memory of Alistair's smile to the forefront of her mind. "So, my dear Warden," he asked, beginning his circuit of the room lit entirely by torchlight. It was a departure since her apprentice days. But she supposed there might not be enough mages to keep the glow-globes lit. He picked up each decorative item, hefted it, examined it, played with it, his sensitive fingers running over the knicknacks and the surfaces on which they were placed, searching for anything out of place that couldn't be explained. "You were apparently quite the heartbreaker while you were in this magnificent tower." She tried to keep her mind on what he was doing and why they were there and not on how his ass moved with the black leather of his leggings.

"I don't want to talk about my life in the Tower. I'd rather forget about quite a few things that happened here." _Angry human faces surrounding her, pelting her with rotted food they'd managed to secret away from the mess. A pale-faced Templar, blue eyes, brown hair, cornering her in the library, telling her she must be giving it to Cullen or Greagoir for them to be nice to her so why not add him to that list? The beating she took when she refused. The fact that he was interrupted by Jowan before he could take it further. The first Templar to try that who stank of onions and his beating he received. A human girl, Rivaini, angry an elf was better than she at basic healing, 'accidentally' melted Moira's hair while learning a fireball, causing it to have to be cut short. Solona Amell sneering when the little elf girl managed to sustain a sheet of ice longer than her. The rashvine nettles that had mysteriously appeared in her clothes press that night. Still more Templars that thought her friendships with Cullen and Greagoir should entitle them to more._ No, there were lots of things about this tower she wanted to forget. And _she_ was named a collaborator.

"Truly?" He stopped his circuit to turn to look at her.

"I may have been good at learning magic, Zevran, but my life here was miserable. I was the only elf until... my Harrowing. And he was kind of an ass. I think you can guess what that meant." She looked away from the sudden understanding in his eyes.

"Ah. Yes. _Shem_." It wasn't a word either of them used often. Only when the humans around them were continually obnoxious. And neither had ever used it to refer to Alistair. The King did his best to never make them feel out of place because of their race. The only time he came close to truly being a _Shem_ was after the Landsmeet when they'd decided she would continue as his mistress. She'd only agreed because she knew something about him he didn't. He wasn't fully human. Zevran, of course cornered her and objected later.

 _ _"What, is he too good to marry you, our good_ _ Shem __king?" He'd at least waited until they were alone in the library at Eamon's estate.__

___She nearly jumped out of her skin and spun around, looking for anyone nearby. "What is_ wrong _with you?"__ _

___"Well?" He'd crossed his arms and waited, scowling._ _ _

___She had rolled her eyes and went back to looking for the silly romance Wynne had recommended. If Eamon insisted she and Alistair couldn't share a room, she needed a way to fall asleep that didn't involve his snoring next to her. "I'm an elf and a mage. Surely neither has escaped your notice."_ _ _

___"He is the king, Moira. He can do as he wishes." He leaned against the bookshelf within her field of vision._ _ _

___"The Chantry and the Landsmeet say otherwise, Zevran." Ah! There it was. She reached her hand out for it and found his gently closing around her wrist. She sighed and her shoulders slumped. "There is something you... not even he, himself, knows... I'm not sure anyone knows." She looked at him over her out-stretched arm and dropped her voice. "Alistair isn't entirely human. He's elf-blooded. He has... no idea." Zevran's eyes widened and he let go of her wrist._ _ _

___"How do you know?"_ _ _

___"His eyes are nearly as reflective as ours are. I've managed to keep everyone else distracted when we were in the Deep Roads or in caves or something." Zevran covered his mouth, propping his arm on his opposite elbow. "And he's um..." she scratched behind her ear, "almost as flexible as one of us?"_ _ _

__He uncovered his mouth to grin widely. "I won't ask how you know_ _ that _. _Athletic, sexy, flexible_ _ and _royal. My dear Moira, are you_ certain _he has no interest in men?"_

 _She choked out a laugh at that. "But you see why I have to be careful? He doesn't know. And neither does anyone else. And they_ can't _. _"__

___He took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. "The secret dies with me, my dear Moira."_ _ _

Of course, remembering that still brought Jowan to mind simply because of Eamon's estate. "Jowan told me... at Redcliffe, that Uldred's people... they called me a collaborator. Because I was friendly with two Templars, Cullen and Greagoir. A collaborator!" She dashed away the hot tears that threatened to spill out and took a deep breath. She stared at the floor, hugging her arms around her middle, her shoulders hunched. She could feel her mana rising as her despair churned within her. Her hands were growing increasingly cold. If she wasn't careful, she'd have the Templars in here, Grey Warden or no. "I don't belong to the mages, I don't belong to the elves -- Alienage or Dalish, I don't belong with the humans. I'm hated and distrusted by all of them, despite everything I've done." His black boots filled her field of vision and his warm hands on her arms, gently stroking up and down helped her regain some semblance of control.

"You belong with Alistair. And with that great snoring beast." Zevran made a disgusted noise in Perrin's general direction as the mabari let out a particularly emphatic snort. He used a knuckle to raise her face to look him in the eye. "And if I may be so bold. With me." He leaned forward and she froze, expecting to feel his lips on hers, but instead, he gently touched them to her forehead. He met her eyes again. "You made a family during the Blight. Why would you not keep it?"

"Almost everyone went their separate ways? And you're going to have to leave, eventually, too. And I'm going to have to deal with the Wardens. And well, Alistair has a country to run." She sighed, meeting his eyes.

"And what, we will separate forever, never to reunite? So pessimistic, my Moira!" The tiny lines around his eyes deepened as his smile widened. He shook his head and grasped one of her hands in his. "Come, rest a bit with me." Puzzled, she let him lead her over to the large bed. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he looked back at her and shook his head. "Do you not trust me, my friend?"

She laughed. "Of course I do. Sorry, Zev." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and propping one knee on the mattress, arranged the pillows to allow them to sit up. Figuring out what he was doing, Moira started toeing off her boots. He glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. "I will sit with you, but I am not putting my boots on a perfectly clean bed."

The assassin rolled his eyes. "Then if we shall be caught barefooted by trouble, I guess we shall be caught together," he sighed, sitting to unfasten the buckles on his own boots.

Perrin snorted and woke up long enough to crawl to the far side of the bed, glaring at them balefully for waking him. Moira chuckled and settled against the headboard, leaning forward only long enough for Zevran to slide his arm behind her. She tried not to focus too much on how it felt to be held by him. She tried not to think about anything other than why they were in this Tower. Alistair. He was in trouble. She knew this, deep in her bones with an instinct she couldn't explain. Raising her chin to lean on Zevran's shoulder, she closed her eyes realizing where she was looking. _Maker, I remember what happens when I kiss him there, where his neck meets his jaw. I'd be on my back, fidelity and friendship be damned. And I would break his heart all over again. Andraste's Ass, I'm such a selfish bitch. I need to leave him alone._ She tilted her head so she wouldn't breathe on an area where she knew he was sensitive. Whispering, she said, “I don’t trust Kinloch Hold. Mostly, I don't trust Irving.”

“Neither do I.” She felt him turn his head to better whisper to her. She turned on her side, resting one of her hands on his chest, the linen of the black shirt rough under her fingers. She wound the string through her fingers as he continued. "Though I know you have a personal relationship with him," Zevran's arm around her back tightened and he reached up to still her fingers, "I would not trust your Greagoir too far, either. He must put Irving first, as you know."

The warmth of his hand around hers made her shiver. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I hate it when you're right. Remember that Jowan was sent here after Redcliffe?”

She felt him nod against the top of her head. “Let me guess: he has escaped. Or was he taken from under their noses?”

“Officially? He’s escaped.” She felt Zevran exhale and his hand tighten on hers. "But you met him. Do you really think him that competent?"

He chuckled softly against her hair. “Not without your capable assistance, __mi carina_. _ Let me guess, they wish you to find him.” His amusement faded into a sigh.

She nodded, settling her head against his chest. “Got it in one." She turned her hand, entwining her fingers with his, knowing he wasn't going to like the second part. "And Greagoir requested that I take Cullen along. Get him out of Kinloch.”

Zevran stiffened in surprise, tightening his fingers around hers. “The unstable Templar? No. I do not think that is a wise idea. It is not safe. For you, I mean."

It was Moira’s turn to be surprised. She tilted her head up to find Zevran frowning in the direction of the door, as if he expected the subject of their discussion to come storming through at any moment. “What are you talking about?”

She watched the muscles along his jaw work as he tried to formulate an answer. His thumb began to stroke tiny circles along the back of her hand and the arm around her adjusted to hold her still tighter. He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “I am content to be your friend, even if you never take me to your bed again." His ears twitched, giving the lie to that statement. It was one of his few tells from countless nights of Wicked Grace around the campfire. She wasn't even sure he was aware of it. He smiled, leering slightly, "Not that I wouldn’t welcome another incredible day and night of passion in your arms, as you cry my name to the Heavens above.” Her flush of heat was thorough and immediate and she had to look away before she did something that they would both regret. “But I do not require it to remain at your side." Zevran used their joined hands to tilt her head back to meet his eyes as if he knew her reaction to him. She held his gaze as he continued. "This Cullen, however, may not be content to let you be. He seems. . . obsessed. To put it kindly.” Zevran shrugged. “You are spoken for and it bothers him. There’s also the fact that he sees Blood Mages in every closet and around every corner. I do not want him to decide that you are one and take matters into his own hands.”

Moira sighed, settling her head back against his chest. __Maker, his heart is pounding. Oh, Zev, I don't want to hurt you._ _ She nodded against him, “As far as blood mages, he’s apparently decided it’s impossible for me to be one. He used to be jealous of Jowan, just because I could actually talk to Jowan out in the open, whereas if he wanted to talk to me, he’d have to meet me clandestinely.” Someone is going to get hurt in this and it might end up being all three of us.

She felt, rather than heard, Zevran's chuckle. “As I said, a heartbreaker!"

She groaned. “Please don't joke about that." She titled her head to look back up at him, catching a fleeting look of sorrow on his own handsome face before he stilled it to neutrality. She sighed. "I doubt Cullen will be a problem for me. I just don’t think he’s had time really to recover from what Uldred did to him. Maybe getting him out of here, away from the constant reminders, would do him some good.”

Zevran nodded, leaning his head back against the headboard. “You may be right. He did admit he cannot go into the Harrowing chamber any more. The fear and anger are too great.”

Moira turned her face into his shoulder and groaned. “Wonderful. In your vast, worldly experience, do people usually get to have their childhood bite them on the ass this often?”

“No, my Warden, only us lucky few,” he replied, the hand on her back moving up to begin playing with her hair. She forced herself to hold still. It's entirely possible he didn't remember what playing with her hair did to her. Right? “Perhaps we should find what there is to eat in this terrible Tower?”

Fighting the urge to shift her hips closer to him, she sighed, tilting her face to meet his eyes. Which brought more of her hair in contact with his deft fingers. _Maker take you, Zevran Arainai!_ “Depends. How social do you want to be?”

“Mages take no vow of celibacy, do they?” He asked, there was a teasing lilt to his voice and a knowing glint in his eyes.

 _ _Oh, you definitely remember what you're doing to me, you ass. I'll get you for this._ _ Outwardly, she chuckled, “No, we definitely do not. Just try not to corrupt too many of them, all right?” His fingers slid further up her back, running through her hair. She closed her eyes with a moan. "Zev, please... I can't handle you doing that anymore." His fingers continued stroking through her hair until she gave in and arched her back. "Why are you doing this?"

He moved until his other arm slid around her, his legs pinning hers between his. She felt every inch of his body pressed against hers. He wanted her. She knew he wanted her. She could feel the evidence of his want against her hip. She still wanted him. But she loved Alistair, even if she also loved Zevran. But, she had committed to _Alistair_ , because Zevran continually pushed her away. She wanted to bury her face in the hair that covered her. He smelled of leather and steel, cloves and sage; scents that made her feel both safe and reckless. He tucked his head against her neck. "Know this. I do not fight Alistair's claim on you because you love him as he loves you and he treats you as you should be treated. But if this Templar harms you in the name of his obsession, or his religion, I will kill him."

She felt him tremble against her. _Oh, Andraste's tits, Zevran, you can't do this._ She went for light hearted to diffuse the situation. "In other words, if he's a _Shem_ _."_

She felt the tension flee his body as he laughed against her collarbone. "Yes, if he's a _Shem_." He pulled back, unwinding himself from her body and flopping onto his back. She propped herself on her elbow, keeping her eyes on his face and not where he strained against the leather ties of his trousers. "I apologize. That will not happen again."

"You're a terrible liar, Zev. I love you. But I am __in love_ _ with Alistair. I will not go behind his back. And you won't either." She sighed, looking down at her hands. What she didn't say was that she was just as in love with him as she was with Alistair, but knew neither man would accept that.

"No, I will not. I had planned to sleep here tonight to watch over you. Perhaps that isn't the best idea." She looked up to find that he'd covered his eyes with his arm. He must have sensed her looking at him since he raised it to look at her for a moment. "Do you truly? Love me?"

She held his gaze. "I do."

He made a frustrated noise and sat up. "Heartbreaker! I shall find my dinner and a willing pair of arms to drown my sorrows into. Unless you wish me bring you something?"

Moira shook her head and looked around at the room. “No, that's all right.” She saw his concerned look, “Don’t worry, I’ll get an apprentice to bring me dinner. There's probably either one or a Templar right outside the door. I'll send them to fetch something. I won’t go hungry. And I’ll have Perrin for company.” She looked at him steadily. “Just . . . watch your back.”

He stood and stretched, the linen tunic riding up to reveal his taut stomach and the low cut of the leathers, the trail of golden hair leading south from his navel and disappearing into the laces. At least he wasn't straining the leather any more. “As if your eyes were on my assets, my Warden,” he grinned as she burst out laughing, blushing and hiding her face in her hands at being caught looking. He leaned over and touched his lips to her forehead. "Be careful, _mi querida_."

Sobering, she nodded and watched him walk out of the guest quarters, her heart aching. _Dammit, Alistair. You shouldn't have left. We might have been able to at least talk about this if you hadn't left!_

 

* * *

 

Not too long after he left, a knock on her door startled her. She quickly dried her face off and climbed down off the bed. Perrin merely raised his head and sniffed the air before snorting and lowering it back down with a sigh. As good an "all clear" as I'm going to get. “Come in?” She called.

A young girl dwarf peeked her head around the door, her bright red hair bound in many haphazard braids as if she'd just grabbed whatever bunch of hair happened to be in her face at the time and controlled it as efficiently as possible. “Moira! I’m so glad to see you!” Dagna bounced into the room, radiating enthusiasm. She was wearing apprentice’s robes that had been inexpertly tailored to her tiny frame, making Moira wonder if she'd done it herself out of necessity or impatience. She bounced over and threw a hug around her waist.

“Uh, hi, Dagna!” Moira replied, returning the embrace, trying not to grunt as the girl nearly squeezed the air from her lungs. Dagna's short frame hid a deceptive strength. “I assume the Tower is treating you well?” She rubbed her side surreptitiously when she was released.

“Well? It’s fantastic! More than I could ever hope for! And it’s all because of you!” The young woman began to rattle off something scholarly-sounding she was apparently working on. Moira attempted to keep up, following most of the theory, but when the Arcanist diverged into the Tranquil and why she thought their ability to more effectively manage rune application was related not to their lack of emotions, but because, unlike the mages they used to be, they could now hear the lyrium singing to them better and work more in tune with the frequency. Moira blinked at her, startled. It sounded similar to Sandal. She opened her mouth to interrupt Dagna, but the creak of leather in her doorway distracted her. Expecting Zevran to have come back, she looked up from Dagna's happy smile as the smith waited for an answer to a question ("Do _you_ think the Tranquil can hear something mages can't? They won't answer because they don't think the question makes sense!") to find Cullen standing at rest in her doorway, for once not wearing his Templar armor. He looked stunningly normal in the plain brown leather trousers and boots and slightly too tight light blue tunic he wore. Moira froze and her throat close in sympathy at his appearance. Perrin sat up, looked at the dwarf, looked at Moira, then at Cullen. Then the traitorous dog bounded off the bed and trotted out of the room!

Dagna fell silent, realizing something was distracting her audience. Moira looked down at her and an expression of pity crossed the young woman’s expressive features as she noticed Cullen, before her innate enthusiasm took over again. "Dagna, I would love to correspond with you regarding your theories."

The Arcanist's young face lit up in another wide smile and she nearly bounced in place, "Really? You mean that?"

"Of course! And I actually think I might have an answer for you regarding your question. I just can't discuss it right now. I am on a very urgent mission, though." Moira smiled sadly and gestured at the door. "I will write to you as soon as I return to Denerim."

“That would be wonderful! Very exciting!" Dagna began walking toward the door, looking at Cullen. He bowed slightly at the dwarva, who nodded before turning back to Moira. "Well, I just wanted to tell you I loved it here, and thank you again for helping me study here! It’s wonderful!” She hugged Moira again, and Moira briefly returned the embrace, though her attention was still on Cullen. Dagna left, shaking her head at the human.

Cullen stalked into the room. She sighed, rubbing her forehead. She really didn't want to deal with him right now. Handsome face like a thundercloud, he stopped in front of her and glared down at her. “Greagoir just told me I’m relieved of my vows. And I have been pawned off on _you_.” He spat the pronoun at her as if it were a curse.

There was a headache starting behind her left eye. She could feel the stabbing pain beginning. Instead of continuing to rub her forehead, she crossed her arms and matched his glare as he attempted to loom over her. He might have once been her friend. But whatever had happened to him in that demonic prison had ruined and soured that. She stood her ground. “Cullen, this isn't really a good time.”

"It's not a good time to talk about how you're about to ruin me? Uldred couldn't do it, so you bat your eyes at Greagoir and suddenly you're in charge of my future?" He was looming. It didn't work in the Landsmeet, it wasn't about to work when the man in front of her was unarmored and exhausted. His honey-brown eyes were red-rimmed and this close, she could see the neglect in his usually carefully trimmed beard.

She kept her hands in plain sight, palms out. She didn't want to have to hurt him. He was unarmed and Moira was quite well aware now, that she never was. Not even around a Templar. "Really? You want to stay here where all you can see is the dead? The ghosts? I'm barely here a day and that's all I can see is who's missing!"

"So then get me reassigned! Don't push them to release me from my vows!" His hands formed into fists, “A Templar is all that I am, and all that I’ve ever wanted to be! How can you do this to me?” He demanded through clenched teeth.

"I am doing nothing to you, Cullen!" All she wanted to do was just... hug him. Anger and pain nearly dripped off him. Throbbing. Her head was _throbbing_.

His brow furrowed and she couldn't tell if he wanted to throw himself into her arms and sob or hit her until his pain went away. She braced herself until he decided. She could deal with either one. She would, of course, hit back. It wouldn't be the first time she sparred with a man neck deep in grief he couldn't swim out of. He took a deep breath and seemed to regain some semblance of control. “You are letting them send me with you! I can’t leave the Tower! What about the Blood Mages? They could be anywhere! I'm the only one who can find them!” It was almost a plea. Snarled and aggressive, but it was almost a plea.

She sighed and gave in to the urge to rub her temples. The throbbing was growing worse. “You are not the only Templar around, Cullen. Greagoir and Irving will have to deal with them. Some battles you cannot fight.” That had been a hard lesson for her to learn, too. She glimpsed Zevran coming into the room behind the Templar, the Mabari following him. He carried a small wooden tray of food, the scent of a stew made her mouth water and her stomach growl.

He hit one fist into an open palm. “But this is my battle to fight! Their victims need _justice!_ My squad... my men!" He met her eyes, steadily. "I need to stand for them. If there's even one left out there... they died in vain. I need to find them all and punish them! Surely you can understand that, Moira!”

She covered his hands with hers and tried to meet his anger with compassion. __Uldred, you son of a diseased and blighted nug._ _ “I do. Cullen. I truly do. But Uldred and all his accomplices are dead. I killed them myself. I made sure of it. What you're talking about.... That’s not _justice_ _,_ Cullen. That’s _vengeance._ And vengeance is _never_ something to be sought after at all costs.” Loghain had been her first object lesson in that. _Should have let that bastard live._ Fortunately, Alistair now agreed with her.

 _“ _Vengeance_ _ is all I have left,” Cullen snarled as he yanked his hands from hers. He turned and stormed out of the room.

“We leave at first light!” She called after him. “Be there, or not. I don’t care!” He waved her off over his shoulder.

Zevran exhaled and moved from behind her, sheathing the dagger he’d palmed. “Are you alright?” he asked. No endearments. She must look worse than she thought. She realized she was shaking. She sat back down on the bed, her head pounding. She wondered if her headache was in empathy of his trauma. If her healing abilities had advanced that much. Wynne had once hinted they could. However, his wounds were not the kind magic could fix. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake to make Loghain pay for his crimes with his death, not if this was the aftermath of his actions. She mourned the stammering, shy boy who’d once tried to steal a kiss in the library. Zevran sat down next to her and put his arm around her. Moira sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. It didn't matter what happened before. Right now, she just needed her friend.

"My head is killing me. Did you bring me dinner?" She would always be surprised and touched by the little ways Zevran looked out for her.

"I did. Perrin found me on the way up. It seems my instincts were correct in thinking that you would not get the opportunity to eat." His hand rubbed small, soothing circles on her arm.

"Thank you, Zevran. I don't know what I'd do without you."

He let out a small chuckle. "Let us never find that out, eh?"

"I hope you had enough time to eat something before Perrin ran to get you."

"There is something on the tray for me. He only interrupted a small flirtation with a lovely young man. Now, what did our angry giant of a Templar want to yell at you about?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm ruining his life, you know." She sat up, scrubbing at her face, then sighed, knowing he wouldn't like what she was about to tell him, but not wanting to hide it, either. “They want me to make him a Grey Warden.” She knew she was right when he stiffened, tightening his arm, and the circles ceased.

“They what?” He seemed to ask the question carefully, his tone neutral.

“I don't want to,” she told him, turning to look at him.

"But yet, you would?” There was an odd note in his voice. She searched his face, but it had gone blank, its sun bronzed lines gave no secrets away. She'd hurt him, deeply. She wanted to take it back. Whatever it was, she wanted to take it back.

“I don’t know. I did want to talk to you about it. And to Alistair, of course.” Moira sighed, “Two of the three people at my Joining died, Zevran. And one at Alistair’s. It’s not good odds. I’d be sentencing him and anyone else who tried to Join to death.”

“Is he the only one you’d consider making a Grey Warden?” He spoke slowly, avoiding her eyes.

She stood up, her head redoubling its throbbing as she tried to read his face. His carefully neutral mask was on, though. What she was beginning to call his 'assassin face.' “Are you asking to be recruited, Zevran?”

He gave her an indecipherable shrug with one shoulder. “Maybe I am, maybe I am not. It is a problem for another day. Come, let us get you and your Grey Warden stomach filled, yes?” He stood up and led her over to the stew. The fingers he gripped her hand with however, held hers tightly and trembled just a bit, as if he were afraid to let her go. _Dammit, Zev._


	4. Lend Me Your Ears

Moira stood with her hands on her hips in the foyer of the Tower, trying to figure out how to fit four pounds of lyrium and enough vials and concentration agents for it in hers and Zevran’s packs. Zevran sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning his head on his hand, an amused smirk playing about his lips as he watched her try to arrange their packs and still rig her armor to be carried on the back of her pack. "You could help, you know?"

"And get myself fussed at when I do not adjust everything to your satisfaction, _mi querida_? I would much rather stare at your attractive backside as you bend and straighten. And dream of your tender lips as you bite them while you think." He laughed as she snorted at him. Truthfully, when he was so over-the-top with his flirting, she knew he was less likely to mean it. He had spent the night in her quarters, both of them fully clothed and sleeping on top of the blankets, Perrin between them. Neither trusted the Templars' restraint, nor Greagoir's assertion that she would not be seen as an Apostate while the taint flowed through her veins.

A creak of leather and armor and a looming shadow blocking her light warned her of Cullen's arrival. Moira stood up, dusting her hands off. She was in a similar outfit from yesterday, just in black leather and wool with a white shirt. When she'd come back into the main guest chamber after changing this morning, Zevran’s eyes had traveled from her face, down to her toes and back up again. His smile got broader and he crossed the room to her, raising her hand to his lips and said, “Black is most assuredly your color, _mi carina_ ," before pressing them to the back of her hand. Her heart sped up and her eyes widened as he'd almost reached out his other hand to touch her cheek, but closed it around the hand he still held at the last second and smiled ruefully. "It as if the moon itself has graced your fair skin." He'd looked wounded at her snort of disbelief. "Well, if that is to be the reception of my compliments, I shall not tell you it also has turned your eyes to the bluest of sapphires!"

She'd felt the blush start somewhere around her neck and flee upward toward the tips of her pointed ears. She ducked her head, unable to say anything in response. Zevran had clutched the hand he was holding to his chest and stepped closer, ducking his own head to get into her field of view. Wiggling his eyebrows at her and smirking, he demanded, "Are you sure we must leave? Right now?” Laughing, her discomfort fading, Moira made a mental note to wear black around Alistair more. _And maybe to keep wearing it around Zevran? Shut up._

Cullen's brown eyes widened as his eyes went from her loosely curling hair to her tightly fitted vest and breeches and down to her boots. He swallowed quickly, his throat bobbing and cheeks turning bright red, seeming to agree with Zevran's rather florid compliment earlier. The newly disavowed Templar took a deep breath and glanced away. Moira took in his own appearance and felt far less impressed. His armor fit him as it he'd scavenged it from the discard pile in the smithy. It didn't hide the impressive physique the required hours of martial training per day gave him, but all the muscles in the world wouldn't stop a Hurlock's blade. There was still something fairly unfinished about him, though.

Moira resisted the urge to sigh. Catching Zevran's eye, she shook her head. He nodded, subtly gesturing. They could see gaps that would stand out like red flags if they were attacked. “Have you decided to come?” She asked, her hands on her hips. Cullen stood awkwardly, as if he were well aware of the vulnerabilities he was projecting. _As well he should be, if he's half the swordsman I remember the other girls and no few of the boys giggling over._ She could see the appeal, she supposed, but she'd always preferred friendship with Cullen. And until she'd found him in that prison, she'd thought he'd felt the same.

He met her eyes again, having gotten his embarrassment under control, “Yes, if you’ll allow me. Greagoir’s made it clear there’s nothing for me here.” His voice sounded as if he could chew iron, he'd spit nails.

Moira narrowed her eyes at Cullen, but ignored his tone, instead she nodded sharply and gestured at the packs. “Fine, take a third of the lyrium supplies. We’ll get you better armor on the other side of the lake.”

His eyes widened. “I . . . I have no money for that. And I have no money for this much lyrium.”

Placing her hands on her hips, Moira breathed out slowly through her nose, resisting the urge to shoot just a little bit of lightning at her trying recruit. Just a little. “Are you or are you not a Grey Warden recruit, Cullen? Unlike when I was conscripted, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden have the full backing of the Crown as well as the funding to go with it." He looked startled at that. "Where we're going, the armor's been paid for. They might want to use that junk for scrap or something," she gestured at his current getup in derision. Behind her, she heard Zevran choke off a snort of laughter. "If you’re going to be fighting with us . . . I can’t have you going down like a ten copper street whore in Denerim.” She heard Zevran outright laugh at that behind her. Cullen’s icy façade even cracked enough for a smile. “Good, I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Over her shoulder, she told the assassin, “Looks like we’ll be paying a visit to The Griffon’s Rest, after all.”

Zevran slung the pack he'd chosen over his shoulder and grinned, “I’m sure Oghren would be glad to stand us a pint or two.”

“Or three or four,” Moira finished, crouching to finish arranging the second pack until it would close and tied her armor to it. Perrin lunged to his feet, panting and licking his jaws, his own specially made pouches strapped to his ribs, chest and haunches.

“Wait, it’s barely dawn! A pint?” Cullen looked up from where he crouched over his own pack, attempting to awkwardly kneel in the ill-fitting armor, while breathing and still reach for the lyrium he needed to insert. Moira took pity on him and began handing him the vials. He started to nod his thanks, but scowled instead. She rolled her eyes, looking up at Zevran's chuckle.

The rogue lounged against one of the thick pillars. “My dear Templar, you must learn that as an adventurer and a fighting man, you take your pleasures as you find them. A pint for breakfast merely gets the blood flowing.” He winked at Moira, a half-smile playing about his full lips, “That depends, however, if one isn’t . . . unwise . . . enough to challenge our dwarven friend to a drinking contest over breakfast and then try to walk all day afterwards.”

Moira laughed, handing Cullen the last of the vials. "Undermining the Warden Commander already, I see?" She stood, scooping up her own pack wincing slightly as the contents rattled together.

“I am merely trying to warn our Templar friend of the . . . _challenges_ . . . he might face traveling with us,” Zevran grinned and arched his eyebrows.

“I think his worse challenge would be to play Wicked Grace with you, cheater." Moira stopped in front of him, crossing her arms, her smile wide. Zevran straightened up and mimicked her pose, letting his own smile widen as he winked at Cullen.

"A cheater, am I? As I recall, you were the first one to suggest we bet our clothing the last game."

Moira shook her head and snorted, snapping her fingers for Perrin. "You are sadly mistaken, my friend. That was Leliana. And _you_ fell for it."

The rogue staggered backward mockingly, his hand over his heart, "You injure me, _mi querida_! It was merely a cunning trap!"

"Which she sprung."

"Redheads, Cullen. Never trust them." Zevran nodded his head emphatically as he gestured for the young man to walk beside him. Moira shook her head at the discomfort plain on Cullen's face.

"Duly noted, Ser," the recruit replied stiffly, adjusting his pack and staring straight ahead.

Sighing, and martialing her magical strength to be able to lift her pack with its load of lyrium and armor, Moira gestured at the two junior Templars standing guard at the giant doors to open them. She could feel their disapproving glares at her use of magic around them and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at them.

 

* * *

 

 

Sunlight burst into the room, underscoring how dank and dark the Tower actually was. Perrin bounded ahead, barking, to scatter a flock of ducks into the lake. "Let’s get going before he decides he's going to swim across. I don’t have time for you to stand around all day and malign my or Leliana's character,” Moira said, laughing. Perrin's continued barking and the ducks' frantic quacking echoing back into the stone chamber proved just how oppressively quiet the foyer actually was. Come to think of it, hers and Zevran's laughter were probably the last time anyone had laughed in that room in ages. Maker knew none of them had felt much like laughing on their last visit here.

"Moira," the voice was quiet. She almost didn't hear him over Perrin's joyful noise. She turned her head to find Greagoir standing at the shoreline in just a shirt and breeches. She nodded her head for Zevran to go to the dock and walked to over to the older man.

"Greagoir," she replied as she approached.

He squinted out over the lake, watching the rising sun hit the mist floating over the surface. The distant sounds of the Redcliffe fishermen carried across to them, making the small town seem closer than it was. "It's almost peaceful." His voice was rough with an emotion she couldn't identify.

Moira couldn't forget what loomed at her back. "Almost."

"Thank you." His large fingers pulled and shredded a cattail as he fidgeted.

"Greagoir... I... This is not like you. What's going on?" Moira ran her thumbs through her straps over her shoulders, easing the weight of her pack.

He glanced down at her from under his heavy brows. "I called off the search for Anders. At least from Kinloch. We don't have the manpower. At least, that's my official reason. I've asked the Grey Wardens to apprehend a known, escaped Blood Mage. I've released a competent, if damaged, Templar and mage hunter into your care. So... if you happen to find Anders at some point...."

Moira chuckled. "It's nearly impossible to find Anders unless he wants to be found. He has a way of making friends. So, you're telling me you set this up so I can conscript two troublesome mages and bring the ire of the Chantry down on the Fereldan Grey Wardens?"

He tossed the reed into the lake and ran his blunted fingers over his shorn hair. "Honestly, at this point, I'm doing damage control. Irving, against my better judgement, screwed up. He sent Anders' lover to Kirkwall."

Moira felt the color drain from her face. If even half the stories were true... "Why? Why would he do that?"

Greagoir looked out across the lake. "There were rumors. Templars aren't the only ones who abuse their power." Moira tightened her hands as she felt her fingers ice over. "Moira..." Greagoir's tone was warning. Not for himself, but the young templars manning the doors were likely to be jumpy with their commanding officer out of armor and unarmed around a mage. And they were already jumpy with her augmentation of her strength in front of them.

She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth and her hands returned to their normal temperature. "Are you going to be all right, Greagoir?"

He sighed. "I should be. There are still a few I need to protect, here. Mages too young to be Harrowed. Templars too green and untried. Irving's lyrium use has been erratic since the Inci -- er -- Uprising."

Moira took a deep breath. "Is yours affecting you?"

The pause before he answered let her know he did not want to admit to any deficiency, even to her. "Some days are better than others." He crossed his arms and looked down at her. "If you're asking whether what I fear is a lyrium delusion? I've asked myself that same question. But I've carefully checked my facts, such as they are. Wynne chose a hell of a time to take off on one of her causes."

"I had the same thought." Moira squinted out over the lake. "I meant what I said about Amaranthine. If you have to, bring who you can and we'll deal with the ramifications later."

"That ... is greatly appreciated, Moira." She turned to meet his eyes. There was so much she wanted to say. She couldn't escape the feeling this might be the last time she saw him alive. Her eyes wandered over every crease and line, age spot and freckle. His brown eyes did the same to her and she wondered what he saw as he gave a brief chuckle. "I'd give you a hug, but they'd probably think I was under some sort of blood magic compulsion."

"Or tackle me looking for a knife. Take care of yourself, old man." She smiled up at him, feeling a weight in her chest she wished would go away. "I'd tell you to come with, but..."

He briefly pressed his knuckle under her chin. A father's gesture, one the other Templars wouldn't see. "You know I can't. _You_ take care of _your_ self, kid." She stood staring out at the lake, listening to his boots crunch through the grass as he walked toward the heavy doors. She heard him pause before ordering the gates closed and shutting her out. She didn't turn around. The tears down her cheeks weren't for their audience. In a rotten, horrible life, how in the Maker's name had he become a Knight Commander? She'd never heard any mage speak ill of him, at least not personally. Most were just grateful he was who he was and not some of the other Knight Commanders she'd heard about, Knight-Commanders Tiernan and Meredith were just two that came to mind.

She scrubbed at the tear tracks on her face and dried her eyes. Circles were a terrible system. Irving should have received time away after the Uprising as much as Cullen needed it. But Irving would also never take it, nor could he be forced. He had no superior to tell him to get out. Greagoir blamed himself for everything that had gone wrong in Kinloch starting with her expulsion.

_"Why didn't you come to me?" He stood outside of her cell. She may have been an official Grey Warden recruit, but there was no way they were going to let her wander around the Tower until Duncan was ready to leave._

_"And what was I going to tell you? That Irving wanted me to let Jowan succeed to get your Templars in trouble? That Jowan was in love with a priest and she with him? That I saw the order to make him Tranquil signed by Irving's own hand? Without even giving him a chance to be Harrowed? Without even asking if that's what he wanted?" She clutched at the bars that separated them, the iron digging into her palms._

_"Yes! I could have done something!" Greagoir had gone into full Templar mode like he did when he was truly upset and felt helpless. His hands were clasped behind his back and he scowled at her._

_She leaned her head against the bars. "Like what? You and I both know it's not up to you who gets Harrowed. He wasn't even going to be given a chance." She looked up at Greagoir. "Could you have handled seeing that sunburst on his forehead?"_

_Greagoir's scowl deepened. "Maker preserve me. No, I could not." He crossed to her cell and held her hands on the bars. "But being kept in the dark made certain that I could do nothing. I'm just glad Duncan got here in time at all. He was supposed to take Jowan. Not you."_

The ferry was even more cramped on the trip back across the lake. Moira sat in the prow with Perrin, Zevran pressed against her back. Cullen sat scowling in the stern, watching over their gear. From the central bench, manning his oars, the ferryman's son, Thad his name was -- he was the eldest of twelve, don't you know? -- filled the silence with his own voice, interrogating Cullen about the life of a Templar. "I'll bet it's quite an adventure! Hunting down abominations!"

Moira ground her teeth, but said nothing, Zevran's hands stroking along her arms in an attempt to soothe and distract her. Her staff lay inconspicuous amongst the rest of their supplies. And it needed to stay there. She could nearly hear Cullen's clenched teeth in his own reply. "Oh, yes, quite an adventure. Until they start hunting you in return."

She turned to look around Zevran, nearly pressing her cheek against his. " _Mi querida_ , let the boy handle this." She met Cullen's eyes. Thad's eyes widened and he nearly capsized the skiff as he twisted to look behind him.

"Th-they h-hunt y-you?" His voice broke, the point of his throat bobbing in his skinny neck.

Cullen leaned forward, arms still crossed over his chest, his brown eyes steady on Thad's young face. It had gone pale under his brown skin. "They'll set a trap, you see. Because even if they're a demon, there's still a human in there, somewhere. With a person's mind. _Thinking_. And they don't want you to follow them. Because once that demon uses up that mage, they'll find another. And another. And maybe, if you're not careful, they'll try for the Templar that's hunting them. And _everyone_ trusts a Templar." Cullen smiled, slowly. One that didn't reach his eyes. He sat back in his seat and held the boy's gaze. Thad's hands shook as he turned back to his oars and it took him three tries to get his same rhythm back.

Moira met Cullen's eyes over the boy's shoulder and raised her brows. He shrugged and turned his head to look out over the lake. Zevran nudged her, reminding her she was digging her elbow into his thigh to continue to sit that way and she turned back around. "I suppose that might have been the only way to dissuade him." She leaned her head back on his shoulder.

"Perhaps. Tragic and romantic tales of martyred mages will only go so far against heroic soldiers of the faith, I think." He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. Her stomach rumbled. "I do hope Oghren is prepared to attend to your Grey Warden needs, however."

She laughed. "Considering how much he eats regularly, he and Felsi probably are." It had been ages since she’d seen Oghren. She wondered how he and Felsi were doing. She and Alistair had divided the money they’d collected on their adventures between everyone else. After all, the king of Ferelden and his chancellor wouldn’t need the coin. Shale and Wynne had taken their money and traveled to Tevinter to find a cure for Shale’s golemnization. Leliana had taken her money to head to Orlais. Sten, well, Sten did whatever it was Qunari do with money. It probably paid for his travel back to his homeland, but beyond that, Moira didn’t really know what he’d done with it. Morrigan had left, melted away in the night after the Archdemon was slain, Alistair’s child quickening in her belly, refusing material assistance. Oghren had wooed Felsi and bought the Spoiled Princess and renamed it The Griffon’s Rest. Zevran had stayed in Denerim, of course. She didn’t really know what he’d done with the money, either. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and wondered if he'd tell her if she asked. He probably wouldn't. Just flirt with her outrageously and change the subject.

The Griffon’s Rest was still a small, white-washed little building on a hill overlooking Lake Calenhad. It looked almost no different from The Spoiled Princess, except, perhaps, the roof was in better shape. The biggest change was the benches and tables out front. Oghren had apparently taken to liking the sky since his exile from Orzammar. The exterior of the inn was also in much better repair than it had been under its previous owner.

Oghren was out front, even at this ridiculously early hour. The sun was just peering over the treetops behind the squat, white building. Oghren was sitting on one of his benches, a pint next to him on the table, watching the sunrise reflect off Lake Calenhad and the mists slowly dissipating over the water. Moira blinked at the sight of her friend out of his armor. He looked smaller. Bare, somehow. His beard and longer red hair almost made up for it, though. He rose and tugged on the blue tunic embroidered in blocky dwarven geometric shapes, straightening it over his grey breeches tucked into short black boots. He squinted in their direction as they disembarked the boat, Zevran handing the boy his gold, and Moira felt her face crack into a huge grin at seeing one of her old friends. She shouldered the pack and her staff, ignoring the wide-eyed look of fear Thad gave her and Cullen's snort of derision aimed at the boy. Perrin bounded out of the boat and leaped up the hill to nearly knock Oghren over. His laughter carried down the hill.

She used the blade on the end of her staff to help her climb the somewhat steep hill, her cheeks aching with how full her heart felt to hear Oghren laugh after Branka. After all, that was what she and Alistair had fought for. Not necessarily to save Ferelden, but to save all their friends. Oghren had been headed for the Deep Roads himself, probably as a member of the Legion of the Dead, before two green Grey Wardens had recruited him to their cause. Now, he was sitting enjoying a sunrise with his favorite beverage. The door to the inn opened and shut and a small child ran out to throw himself? Herself? Onto Oghren for a hug, squealing at trying to avoid Perrin's efforts to lick her face. Moira felt her breath catch. She glanced over at Zevran and realized he was grinning from ear to ear, too. The dwarf finally noticed their approach and set the child down, his thick red beard split by a broad grin.

“Moira! Zevran! It’s sodding good to see you!” the dwarf’s gravelly voice carried across the grass. Moira quickened her pace and bent down to give the dwarf a hug. He no longer felt as solid as he once had, but then, he’d probably not needed to pick up an axe and kill a genlock in a while, either. Before she could ask after Felsi and the little one currently using everyone's legs to dodge the mabari's drooling tongue, Oghren glared up at the Templar at Moira’s back. “Still collecting lost Chantry flunkies, Moira?” The Dwarf’s voice had hardened as he glared up at Cullen.

Moira, frowned and looked back at Cullen for an explanation. Cullen looked away, but his face turned red from his neck upward. Oghren crossed his arms and planted his feet in a warrior's stance she knew all too well. “Cullen? What's going on?”

“I questioned him about lyrium missing from the Tower,” Cullen said, scowling and examining a scuff on his worn boots. He looked back up and squinted into the rising sun. Moira closed her eyes and sighed. She heard Zevran sit down heavily on the bench opposite Oghren. Well, heavily for Zevran. It was still only a slight creak of leather. It was disturbing Kinloch Hold was missing lyrium, but it wasn't unheard of. But for it to be a large enough amount for Templars to be questioning locals, that was bad. She wondered why Gregoir hadn't mentioned it. _Probably thought he'd already dumped enough on me._

Oghren spat, the gobbet landing an inch or two away from Cullen's boot. The younger man didn't move but he did focus his immediate attention on Oghren, brown eyes narrowed. “Nug shit! He came in here, insulted me, picked a fight with one of my servers and trashed my common room.” Oghren looked at Moira, “Apparently, he’d forgotten who my _friends_ are. As if I’d do anything to upset you or the boy.” Oghren looked back at Cullen, “If he’d _asked nicely_ , I could have told him the rumors I’d been hearing. Hmpf.”

Moira could almost hear Cullen's teeth grinding from where she stood. Her legs were cramping from crouching in front of Oghren and that _throbbing_ was starting behind her eye again. Zevran sat silently watching the dwarf and the human but had taken out a dagger and was trimming his nails. She knew it wasn't quite the annoyingly innocuous habit it seemed, and Oghren knew it, too. But did Cullen? Moira caught Zevran's eye and he shrugged one shoulder, cryptically. She moved to sit on the bench next to him, leaning her staff against the building, but close to hand. "Cullen, sit down. It's in the past. Nothing's going to be solved by you being an ass again this morning." She glared at Oghren. "And you. I'd like to hear these rumors. On the way here, we were jumped by some bandits with a suspicious amount of lyrium for some simple highwaymen." Her stomach took the opportunity to rumble, loudly. "So mind if I get breakfast, while we chat?"

Oghren threw his head back and laughed, his attention pulled back from anger at Cullen. “Moira, go tell your mother to get four pints of ale and bring us some breakfast. Tell her the Grey Warden’s here.”

Moira’s eyes widened at the name he’d given the little dwarf girl. Once the child disappeared in the building and Cullen complied with her order, she leaned forward. "Mother? Did Felsi have a child before...?"

Oghren glowered at his tankard. "Stones, no. Found the child next to a caravan. Everyone but her, dead. Must've been asleep or hiding in one of the wagons. It was a lyrium shipment from Orzammar. Every last ounce stripped. Girl didn't know her name, so...."

"Maker's _breath_!" Cullen, for once, spoke for all of them. "Moira, she wasn't here when I --"

"It's all right, Cullen. You're a recruit now. What happened is in the past." She gave Oghren a significant look. He sighed and nodded.

Zevran, however, grinned. "Is she as much a handful as her namesake?"

Oghren laughed loudly, “She’s certainly trying to be! She’s not old enough to do much, but she tries to be helpful! Thinks of ways to help that aren't all that helpful and usually makes a mess. Still doesn't talk much, though. I think she's still scared.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable but so was the concern.

Moira felt a lump in her throat she couldn’t seem to swallow around. Zevran laughed, “I think you rendered our dear Moira speechless, Oghren!” She looked down at the table and blinked back the burn of tears behind her eyes. She'd only entertained the possibility of having her own children for a few short months while falling in love with Alistair and Zevran, but when Alistair told her how impossible it would be for her, she'd felt her heart breaking all over again. And to have Oghren name what was apparently his adopted daughter for her -- she blinked rapidly and exhaled, looking up at the red-haired dwarf with wide eyes.

Oghren laughed louder. When he finally calmed down, “Stop looking at me like that, Warden!" He leaned forward, his mustache fairly quivering. "You saved me, down there in the Deep Roads. Naming a child after you was a small favor. Haven’t decided if we’ll name the next one after the boy, though. He’s probably got enough children under the age of two named for him. Ran into sodding Alista and an Alistaira the other day. About made me ill, naming girls after the boy and not you.” Felsi came out of the tavern at that point, her sandy hair shining in the sun carrying a steaming platter of food outside. Moira felt the familiar clench in her stomach, watching Oghren’s wife, his very pregnant wife, carry their food out to them. Oghren had found out right before they'd fought the Archdemon that Felsi had gotten pregnant from their reunion. If it hadn't been for the impending fight, he'd have gotten everyone drunk. Not for the first time, she rubbed her abdomen surreptitiously. It didn’t happen often, but it did hurt to see a woman carrying a child while she knew she could not. At least, not Alistair’s child. And that was what really rankled about Morrigan.

She smiled in greeting, however, just as brightly as when she’d approached Oghren. Zevran beat her and Oghren to getting the platter from the diminutive woman, however. Once relieved of the platter, Felsi came over to greet Moira. The two women embraced, Moira bending around the baby. While the food was on the table, the talk turned to Felsi and the upcoming birth of Oghren’s second child. The sun climbed higher in the sky.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t long before the platter sat empty and even Cullen looked to be less irritated on a full stomach. Moira reminded herself to check with him about his dosage schedule. He might need to cut back if the four pounds were to last them. Alistair hardly used it, but he did use it on occasion if they had encountered a great deal of Emissaries. She looked around at the peaceful little Inn and smiled, feeling that after the horrors still stamped all across the Tower, this little inn, this place, was worth everything they'd fought for.

Oghren and Felsi sat closely together on the bench they shared, Felsi leaning back on her husband and little Moira on Oghren’s knee. Oghren belched and took another swallow of ale. “So, what brings you out of Denerim, Warden?” The dwarf refused to call her Chancellor, as if being a Grey Warden and their senior officer outranked the right hand of the king of an entire country. In a way, Moira guessed he was right.

She and Zevran exchanged a glance. Before she could say anything, Zevran spoke, “Alistair’s gotten himself in trouble.” Cullen looked up from where he'd been pushing a pile of scrambled eggs around his plate at that announcement.

Oghren sat his pint down hard, sloshing his ale over the table and startling little Moira. “The sodding boy can’t even stay out of trouble as King? Isn't that your job, Warden? Babysitting him?"

Zevran chuckled. “She could hardly keep him constantly tied to the bed." Oghren burst into laughter again.

Moira rolled her eyes and interjected, "The Grey Wardens ordered him to Weisshaupt.”

Oghren looked at Moira out of the corner of his eye, while taking a long draught of his ale. Slamming the vessel down again, he belched and added, “I thought you were the sodding Warden Commander? Why wouldn’t they summon you, instead? And why would that boy think leaving his sodding kingdom for any reason a good sodding idea?”

“They must have gotten wrong information. Or perhaps, since he’s technically senior to me and king, they made an assumption. A wrong one, but an assumption, nonetheless.” She sighed, “Or perhaps, like I told him, it’s because I’m an elf.” And a woman, she added silently.

Oghren snorted and Zevran chuckled. Cullen merely watched her. “Someone else underestimating you, Warden. I never sodding get tired of that,” Oghren grinned.

“So, we stopped by to get Cullen some better armor. I can’t have him fighting in that junk,” Moira waved her hand vaguely at the ex-Templar. “And to see if you’d heard any rumors.”

Oghren ran a considering eye over the big man. “By the Stone, the Chantry forge you boys from the same mold? And then wrap you in scrap metal?” He glanced an amused eye at Moira, “Now, no sodding getting this one confused for the other one some dark night, Warden.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. Moira and Zevran joined him, used to Oghren’s sense of humor. Cullen turned a bright scarlet and stormed off, taking his own tankard with him.

Moira stopped laughing first. That man needed to relax. It might be a good idea to talk to Zevran about taking him to the first whorehouse they came to. She took a long drink of her ale as the others’ laughter died down. “I was hoping to hear some news. What rumors? Are any of them credible?”

Oghren nodded to Felsi, giving her a quick kiss, and the dwarven woman took their daughter and disappeared inside the tavern. He looked down at his pint. “Someone’s been buying up lyrium. Sometimes even stealing it. And no, not like we did to keep you and Wynne and Morrigan in fighting form. This is ridiculous amounts. Merchants have ended up dead for not selling. Like Little Moira's family.” Moira and Zevran looked at each other, each thinking of whoever had taken Jowan from Kinloch Hold. Perhaps they, themselves, weren't blood mages?

Oghren grunted, standing up, draining the last of his pint. “Well, let’s see what I have on hand to fit your stray Templar, Warden.” The sun was higher in the sky now and Moira resisted the urge to tell Oghren to hurry up. Of all the companions, only Zevran actually knew what they’d done to stop the Blight. He was the only one who knew why the Wardens holding Alistair was a Bad Thing. With his new family, the less Oghren knew, the better. But Morrigan's child wasn't why Moira's sense of urgency grew with each passing hour. This had hardly been a leisurely breakfast, not as fast as they'd all eaten. She tried to shake her sense of unease as she and the others helped Oghren load the trays with the remains of their meal. She motioned for Cullen to come back from where he stood staring at the lake, his pint in hand. He'd glanced over his shoulder at them when he'd heard them stand.

The common room of the small tavern hadn't changed much either. It was a great deal cleaner, now that Felsi was in charge instead of just a barmaid. The shutters were open, letting in the morning light and the gentle breeze off the lake instead of closed and dreary. Felsi took the tray with a fond smile for her husband as Oghren led them into a smaller room. It was small and private, with a single table and four chairs, a wide window providing to a view over the lake, shutters thrown open for the morning light, likely rented for meetings, but more frequently used by Oghren's family. He led them through this room to another door which proved to be the larder, high narrow windows under the eaves providing both ventilation and light. He began moving barrels and sacks away from one of the walls, Moira, Cullen and Zevran moved to help him. A plain wooden door hid behind the rack of ale barrels and piles of flour sacks.

He glared at Cullen and glanced at Moira. "I uh, asked that clever Dagna girl to stop by one day and see if she could rig me a stout lock. She did me one better. She gave me such a setup after I told her what it was for, I'm not even sure Pretty Boy over there could break into it. She reinforced the walls, too."

Zevran laughed, shaking his head as he leaned against the wall in studied nonchalance. "I do not make a habit of breaking into my friends' armories. But now, I smell a challenge!"

Oghren snorted. "I wouldn't. She booby trapped it."

Zevran's smile was nearly feral as he crossed his arms. "Even better."

Moira rolled her eyes. “Oghren, why in the name of the Maker do you have your weapons and armor hidden behind an unassailable and booby trapped fortress?”

Oghren wiped his brow on his sleeve, hopping up onto one of the ale casks. “We’ve had some troubles with sodding ruffians and bandits. Nothing we wanted to be bothering the mages over, but you _Templars_ ," he shot another glare at Cullen, "don’t come and drink as sodding much as you used to, and the bad seeds have sodding figured that out. I hid the better stuff you gave me after Denerim in here, Moira.”

Oghren did something complicated to the wall and runes flared to life, the light starting a chain reaction away from the old warrior's hand. Cullen started and leaped to his feet away from the door. Moira's eyes widened and she approached the door, listening to the mechanisms Dagna had designed whir to life with the faint smell of copper and sulfur and silverite on the air. A handle emerged from a secret compartment and Oghren grasped it, turned it to the right, then the left, then pulled down. With a creak of metal scraping against wood, the door opened on silent hinges and Moira could indeed see that he’d stored every weapon and piece of armor she’d given him as well as some new things. She stepped into the room, looking around. The walls were lined with a metal that resembled dragonscale, but Dagna couldn't possibly have gotten her hands on that much of the rare material. Alistair still had most of the Archdemon's corpse locked up under Fort Drakon. Supposedly.

The small closet was lined with shelves and each item on the shelves was clean and well-cared for. Three armor stands crowded the floor. Two had what looked like the Warden Commander Armor she’d once given Oghren. She stepped closer to examine the gleaming blue lazurite and realized it wasn't just lazurite and silverite plated to give it the true Warden Armor look. It was real griffon armor. The original was sized for a dwarf, that was the set they'd found in the Wardens' cache in Denerim. The other set she approached, her hands touching the fine metals in wonder. Sized for a human, the solid blue lazurite and untarnished silverite nearly glowed in the morning light reflecting off the metallic walls of the chamber. She didn't particularly want to put a recruit in full Warden armor, but there wasn't much of a choice. Behind her, Oghren chuckled. “It’s a duplicate of the stuff you had sized down for me, Warden. I had that guy who made that dragon scale platemail make it for me. I was gonna give it to the Boy on the Anniversary. But sod it all, you can have it now.”

Moira turned to look at him, her brows drawn together. “Are you sure, Oghren? I mean, Alistair won’t be wearing it. Cullen will. I don’t want to take a gift you intend for someone else.” She traced the embossed griffon over the chest plate. This symbol meant so much to Alistair and it had begun to mean so much to her, as well.

Cullen cleared his throat. “I-I don’t want to take something intended for His Majesty.”

“Sod it all, Warden, I can get another duplicate made. It wasn’t that sodding expensive!” Oghren rubbed the back of his neck, his ruddy face redder than normal. His mustache trembled where he worried at his upper lip, one of his many Wicked Grace tells.

"You are a terrible liar, my old friend," Zevran pointed out, clapping him on the back.

The irascible dwarf crossed his arms and glowered at them both. “Since it won't go to its intended recipient for a while, will you at least allow me to buy it from you?” Moira felt terrible taking the armor, knowing there were now two children Oghren and Felsi had to think of.

He huffed out a breath. “Warden, I’m warning you, you’re getting on my last nerve! Take the sodding armor!” He glared at her. Putting his hands on his hips, he widened his stance. “Fine. If you must know, I was only giving it to him because of you. Stone only knows what that boy -- and the rest of us -- would have come to without you along, you know. I didn’t think you’d want it since you’d given it to me, and well… It was a sodding sight easier to ask for his measurements than yours, _woman_!”

Moira bit her lips on a laugh. She crossed the small room to stand in front of him and stood looking down at the furiously scowling and blushing warrior. She bent at the waist and kissed him on the forehead. Oghren turned an even brighter shade of red. Zevran laughed out loud. “I love you, too, Oghren,” she said, straightening up.

“Thunderhumper,” he snarled, crossing his arms and glaring at the floor, his blush nowhere near close to subsiding. “Just take the sodding thing for your second pet Templar, would ya? You planning on collecting a set?”

Cullen clenched his jaw, and turned redder than Oghren had at the dwarf’s turn of phrase. Moira rolled her eyes and caught Zevran’s amused glance. Zevran laughed, “Come, my dwarven friend, let us allow the mage dress the Templar." Zevran steered him out of the store room with his arm over his shoulders, leaning his head closer. "Which reminds me, my friend! I have a very amusing joke to tell you. Though we should make certain your daughter is not within earshot.”

“That good, eh?” The dwarf roared with laughter as the two old friends walked to the common room to catch up.

Moira looked over at Cullen, crossing her arms and leaning against the metal wall. “You need to relax.”

“He’s . . . . _vile_.” Cullen's handsome features twisted into a sneer. “He’s crude. He shows no respect for you or the King.”

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. _Throbbing. Headache._ She looked up and met his eyes. “Alright, first off, you need to stop thinking of Alistair as the King. If you say that in the wrong company, you’re going to bring attention to _me._ And that would be very bad. Just names, no titles. The minute you endanger me, or Zevran or Perrin, I leave your ass. And take the lyrium.” He actually turned pale at that and swallowed hard. “One more thing. Did Greagoir even tell you why he sent you with me?”

“He told me . . .,” Cullen bunched his fists, the cheap leather creaking. “He told me he hoped you would make me a Grey Warden.” He looked at her from under lowered lids. “Are you? Going to make me a Grey Warden?”

She sighed. “I’m not the only vote. Alistair also gets to weigh in.” She motioned to him to start taking off the armor. “Now let’s get you out of that junk and into actual armor. At least your boots fit, even if they're old. Greagoir could at least have given you a new pair of those.”

Cullen bent and unbuckled his greaves, sighing, and flexing his calves. "I didn't have the money for them. I've been sending all of my pay to my family to help them recover from the Blight."

Moira stopped unfastening the breast plate from the stand and turned to look at him. "That's terrible! I -- I'm so sorry. Did you... lose anyone?"

"My... parents." His shoulders slumped, and he blinked rapidly, looking away. Moira stepped toward him, not entirely certain what to do, or what he would welcome from her. He took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself back together, meeting her eyes again. "My sisters and brother got out, though."

"I'm sorry. About your parents." He kept his face blank, closed off. She wanted to shake him. _I am your friend, not your enemy, you idiot!_ Not for the first time, she wondered how often Duncan resisted that urge with her. She returned to the armor stand. "I'm glad your brother and sisters got out. Where were they?"

"Honnleath. Near the Frostbacks. A very small town. We had an orchard. I don't think you could even find it on a map." He sighed again, in relief this time, as yet another ill-fitting piece of armor fell to the floor.

"You've got to be kidding." Moira stood staring at him and he stopped trying to reach the shoulder buckle and looked at her.

"What?"

"There was a giant stone statue in the middle of your town square, wasn't there? Put there generations ago by a crazy weird mage?" She leaned one arm on the stand and grinned.

Cullen frowned at her, his brows drawing together. "That was the legend, I suppose. Why?"

"We woke her up and she helped us defeat the Blight. Has a real grudge against pigeons." Moira bit her lips on the laugh she was trying so very hard to hold back. She couldn't decide what was funnier, his disbelief, or his outrage.

He settled on outrage. "It killed its master, you know."

Moira gave him her best, widest grin. "Oh, I know. For ordering her around." She leaned toward him as if she was imparting a secret. "That's why I freed her."

His angry and startled shout echoed off the metal walls of the storage closet. "You did _what_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Ballades for allowing me to borrow her less-than-reasonable Knight-Commander Tiernan from _Blood Moon_. Lark may not exist in this continuity, but that doesn't mean all of her contemporaries do not.
> 
> Also, go read _Blood Moon_.


	5. How Many Roads?

After separating from Oghren, the fiction of a ribald joke set aside as soon as they were in the smaller dining room, Zevran doubled back to listen in on Moira and Cullen. He trusted his Warden to take care of herself against one lone Templar, but he worried that she would not do what was necessary to protect herself against an attacker if that attacker was an old friend not in his right mind. When he heard no evidence of an altercation from inside Oghren's small armory, Zevran stepped away from the door, attempting to force his heart to return to a normal rhythm. He motioned for Perrin to stay just outside of the doorway and keep watch over their Warden. With a short whine, the Mabari settled down and laid his massive head on his front paws. Zevran walked quietly back into the small dining room where Oghren waited, one bushy red eyebrow raised. “What’s she doing with that duster?”

Zevran rolled his eyes and then a slow grin spread across his face. “Dressing him. And then she told him about Shale. Apparently, he grew up in the same village as our stone friend."

Oghren threw his head back in a loud laugh. "Oh, now that's a meeting I wish we could see!" He shook his head. "That still doesn't explain what's taking her so sodding long."

Zevran shrugged. "You saw his armor. It may take a blacksmith to remove it, he is so wedged into it. Can you not sense if she is using her magical strength?"

Oghren chuckled. "It's been such a long time since I even tried to use those tricks the boy showed me. Gimme a minute." Oghren closed his eyes and cocked his head, shaking out his limbs. The way Zevran understood Templar abilities, they relied on faith in the Maker and Andraste themselves. As far as he knew, Oghren only believed in ale and stones and in whatever else dwarves did. Perhaps that was enough?

"Aye, she's gonna be a mite tired when she's done. Boy's skin must be crawling with the amount of power she's throwing around." Oghren opened his eyes and belched. He scratched under his beard. "By the way, some idiot left a horse when he couldn't pay his bill. It's just costing me good coin at this point. I got no use for a horse. Not like me or Felsi could ride one, and it ain't the kind you hitch a plow to. I'd sell it to the Templars, but they'd just use it to hunt down some poor kid who just figured out his Maker didn't like him nearly as much as he thought he did. If you want to take it off my hands, I'd consider it a favor."

"Somehow you keep asking us to do you favors that cost you coin," Zevran pointed out.

"Blight take you, elf! If it weren't for that woman, I'd be long dead in the Deep Roads. I owe her a sodding lot more than a suit of armor and a nug-humping horse!" Oghren glared up at Zevran who merely raised an eyebrow.

"It was merely an observation, my friend. I owe her a great deal as well. My life, my freedom," _my heart -- shut up_ , "My wealth. The least I can do is see her safe on this quest of hers." Zevran ignored the squinted, knowing look Oghren gave him. He glanced away. "I believe she she needed time to set the _duster_ ,” he enunciated the dwarven insult purposefully with his accent to make it so much more worse-sounding, “straight. He has been unpleasant ever since he was told to go with her.”

Oghren grunted, allowing the change of subject. “Why’d she sodding take him on then?”

“Why did she take on any of us?" Zevran huffed out a laugh, leaning against the sturdy table and crossing his arms. "We could be useful to her at the time? She felt sorry for us? She thought we were handsome?”

Oghren laughed, “Well, that explains why she kept me and the boy around!”

Zevran shook his head, still laughing. “You are a terrible little man." Sobering, he sighed. "The Templar Knight Commander told her to make him a Grey Warden.”

“Thunderhumper!” Oghren growled, glaring in the direction of his armory. “Is she going to?”

“I do not know, my fine dwarven friend." Zevran could only shrug one shoulder and shake his head, and try to ignore the twist of pain deep in his chest. "I do not think she knows. I doubt she will make a decision until we’ve collected Alistair.”

“Watch her back,” Oghren told him. Then a wide grin split the red mustache and beard. “It's somewhat north of where you're usually looking.”

Zevran's dark brows went up. “I am not so easily distracted as all that, old friend”

Oghren grunted. "By the Ancestors, you sodding elf. I have eyes. _You're_ still as blind as the day you were born, though."

Zevran straightened up, fists clenching, eyes narrowing at Oghren, "What is th--?"

Moira came out of the larder, then, leaning on a staff. Zevran turned at the click of the bladed end on the stone, his breath catching in his throat. Moira tilted her head at him as she came closer, her brows drawing together. She'd found those ridiculous and scandalously low-cut Chasind robes they'd given to Morrigan before she'd left. They had barely covered the larger woman's breasts, something the apostate had found entirely amusing when Alistair repeatedly refused to look at her. On Moira, however, the Chasind-style leather, held together with a great many straps instead of cloth, was only slightly less revealing. Zevran wrenched his eyes away from the way the cloth clung to the curve of each of her breasts and back up to her eyes where they narrowed at him in amusement. She hated these robes for all that they carried enough runes on them to deflect everything but an Ogre's two-fisted strike -- especially after she and Morrigan and Sandal had gotten through with them -- and he didn't understand why she would wear them. She placed the bundle of her clothes on the table and turned to present her back to him, moving her hair out of the way. The rose-scented Orlesian perfume she favored hit his senses hard and he desperately fought the urge to pull her against him and bury his face in her hair. "Zevran? Could you?"

He almost groaned aloud. Instead, he cleared his throat and martialed every last ounce of self-control he'd ever learned. "Of course, _mi querida_." Deftly, and trying very hard not to think about the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, he fastened the many buckles that ran up the back of the primitive-looking, but nearly indestructible armor. "How did you get into this alone?"

She glanced back at him as she released her hair before he'd finished the last buckle. _She is expecting me to braid it, of course. There is no one else. Of course, you're not just doing it to run your fingers through all that wonderful hair either. Shut up._ Tightening the last leather strap, he complied with her silent request and began an intricate braid that would hold her hair tight to her head in a fight. "I _can_ dress myself, Zev. I made Cullen wait out in the hall when I found the armor."

Zevran and Oghren both chuckled. "Good," Zevran told her, allowing a silken curl to wrap around his finger as he wove it in with two others. "We will have very little time every morning to assist each other like this while we travel. He needs to get his practice in quickly."

"I am familiar with more armors than just Templar," Cullen drawled as he came around the corner. The Commander of the Grey armor gleamed in the scant daylight coming in through the high window. As familiar as he claimed to be, however, he moved awkwardly as if his legs weren't used to being quite so unencumbered. Zevran suddenly understood Moira's reasoning in not wearing the heavier armor. She would need to be just a mage until Cullen got used to her peculiar ability. Oghren approached to test the fit and tug on any loose straps.

Quietly, her voice pitched for Zevran, she told him, echoing his thoughts. "I think you can guess why I’m wearing these. He was very uncomfortable when I had to use my enhanced strength to get him out of his armor."

He leaned closer under the pretense of gathering more hair. "Will that be a problem?"

"It shouldn't be." She turned her head slightly, careful to not tug her braid out of his hands. "But I'll have you to guard my back." She grinned impishly.

Zevran bowed his head with an answering smirk of his own, ignoring the sharp twist somewhere near his heart that always happened when she smiled like that. “With my life, my fair Warden.” _And everything I am. Andraste preserve me, I am a fool._

He pushed the end of her braid over her shoulder to let her know he'd finished. It absolutely wasn't an excuse to brush his rough, calloused fingers against her smooth, pale shoulder. She hadn’t yet put the furred pauldrons on that served as an anchor for the remaining deflection runes sewn into the fabric. Her slender fingers grabbed his and squeezed his hand in thanks. For a very brief moment, he wondered what she would do if he followed his hand with his lips? An image of Alistair's hazel eyes narrowed in one of his frequent smiles and the sound of Moira's voice broke that train of thought as she dropped her hand to her side and said, “Oghren, thank you for the meal and the armor. I’m borrowing a shield for Cullen, though, and this staff. Is this Final Reason?” Zevran turned to busy himself with being certain everything within his pack was arranged properly as Oghren opened his mouth to protest the word "borrow." He did watch while Moira argued with their former companion. She held up a finger to silence Oghren. “I will return them, or pay for them, I insist. How did Final Reason and these robes end up here? I thought I gave them to Morrigan.”

Oghren looked uncomfortable. He scratched at his jawline. “She came roaring through here about three weeks ago. Told me to keep that for you and was gone in the morning. Wouldn’t even share a pint!” Moira let out a surprised grunt at that. Zevran felt equally shocked. Not at refusing the pint, that was perfectly in character for the witch, but leaving perfectly good supplies without expecting to be compensated in some way was definitely odd.

Oghren spat into the small hearth, “What? She said you were going to need them and she sodding well wasn’t going to ‘leave you naked in the wind!’ Her words, not mine.” Trembling, Moira leaned against the table and bowed her head into her free hand. Zevran caught Cullen’s eye and shook his head as the young man was about to ask a question that would probably cause Moira to freeze him on the spot.

After a moment, she straightened up, smoothing the pale blue silk and leather down her torso. “Thank you, Oghren. I hope you don't mind I helped myself then?”

Oghren shrugged, “Of course not! Don’t want those dusters across the lake to accuse me of stealing from mages!”

“Thank you. Did she . . . leave anything else behind?” Zevran swallowed the rather irrational urge to hunt the woman down himself and strangle her.

“That sodding swamp witch? By the stone, no. She lit out of here like the Archdemon itself was on her heels. What in the name of the stone was she running from, anyway?” Oghren hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked sharply at Moira.

“The same reason Alistair is being held by Weisshaupt,” Moira sighed, shoving the robe in her pack. “I’m not going to tell you, though. The less you know, the better off you’ll be, old friend.” She dried her face and turned to Zevran. “My friend, please loan Cullen _Oathkeeper_?” Zevran looked at his Warden quizzically while doing as she asked. As he handed the beautifully wrought sword to the Templar, feeling like he was loaning the man his own arm, Moira handed him the stunning meteor-rock-wrought _Starfang_.

He stared at her in shock as he took the hilt reverently, “This, I – I cannot accept _this_.”

She winked at him, “It’s a loan, Zevran. Don’t get too attached.” He felt the weight of the blade in his palm, how it seemed to adjust to him, singing to him a light, pleasant melody only he could hear. He cocked his head at Moira, raising an eyebrow. She winked. Zevran turned his attention back to the weapon and held the sword with both hands, watching the light play with the intricate scrolling along the blade, the song changing pitch with the touch of the sun. "I think she likes you, Zev."

He let out a shaky chuckle, "Is that what that means?" Catching Moira's sad smile at the blade, he let go with one of his hands to reach out to her. "I will take good care of her."

Her smile grew more confident as his hand brushed against her cheek and that sadness he hated fled from her eyes. "I know."

She took a deep breath and walked over to Oghren. “Old friend, I know you’re going to ask to join us, but I’m going to tell you to watch over your wife and your children,” she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And I need you to watch the Tower for me.”

The dwarf’s eyes widened and he nodded, shocked. “Do you expect trouble? Do I sodding need to get Felsi out of here?”

“Felsi is safest wherever you are. But if it gets too hot, bring this to Bann, er, Arl Teagan and there will be a place for you in Redcliffe.” She handed the dwarf a letter with a wax seal on it. It was stamped with the seal of the Chancellor of Ferelden on it. “Hide it. Put it in your armory, if you have to. Hopefully, it won’t come to anything.” Oghren nodded, putting the note in his inside vest pocket. “We’ll put everything back in front of that door, though. Figured we’d help you that much.”

She stood up, straightening her robes again. Zevran allowed himself to watch her hands smooth the fabric and leather down her slight curves, unable to keep the smile from his lips. “We need to get going. We’re going to have a long walk to Highever.” Moving flour sacks and ale barrels back in front of Oghren’s armory, however, soon wiped any grin from his face. For a short time, at least. It quickly returned as he watched a now-glowing Moira brush a few sweat-loosened tendrils from her face. He caught Cullen's glare and winked. He didn't know or care what the boy was annoyed about. Zevran gathered his own pack as Moira shouldered hers and embraced Felsi on the way out. Perrin trotted at her heels. Little Moira ducked behind her mother as they passed through the common room. The elder Moira wiggled her fingers at the tiny child.

Outside, they all blinked in the warm sunshine. “Well, at least it’s a beautiful day for walking,” Zevran said enthusiastically. Moira laughed.

Oghren rounded the corner with an absolutely beautiful bay Orlesian courser. Cullen let out a low whistle. Zevran glanced at Moira and found her own expression of astonishment mirrored his. "Oghren, you cannot possibly expect me to take such an animal off your hands! He -" She tilted her head to glance underneath, "She is worth far too much!"

"Sod it all, Warden! I told Zevran you're doing me a favor taking her off my hands. Bill, here, is costing me a fortune in feed!" Oghren crossed his arms and set his feet, glaring at Moira.

Moira blinked. Zevran bit hips lips on a grin at the expression on her face. "You have a mare. Named _Bill_?"

Oghren crossed his arms and glowered. "The Nugget named her. Her former owner never bothered to give her one, or at least didn't tell us, when he dumped her here."

"A _mare_. Named _Bill_."

"You try telling a toddler 'no,' when her heart's set on something! It'll be bad enough when the sodding horse leaves."

Moira sighed. “Then don’t break her heart and give the horse to us!”

“I guess the part where we can’t afford to feed the bloody thing went over your nug-humping elven head, Warden?” Oghren crossed his arms and stared up at her.

Cullen cleared his throat. “He is correct, Moira. Horses, when they aren’t doing anything to offset their costs, are relatively expensive to house and feed. Bill is taking up stable space Oghren can rent out to paying customers.”

“I’m aware of that, Cullen.” Moira grated out. Zevran covered his mouth to stifle the urge to chuckle as a muscle in her jaw jumped from grinding her teeth. “My point is that he should let us buy the horse.” He should not be so amused when she was irritated, but truly, her cheeks turned the most delightful pink and her great blue eyes narrowed till her thick dark lashes almost met, giving her a deceptively seductive expression, especially when one took in her pursed lips.

“Owe me,” was Oghren’s only response, delivered from under a twitching mustache.

Moira glared down at the stocky warrior who’d planted his feet in a defensive stance Zevran recognized. There would be no moving him or Moira. This should be interesting. “You’re worse than Sten.”

“I’ll sodding well take that as a compliment.”

 

* * *

 

It was a little over three days to West Hill and a week or so to Highever. Bill the mare cut that time slightly, but not by much since she could only carry their gear, not them. Moira spent most of the time saving her mana and wearing the mage robes.

She also attempted to studiously ignore Zevran’s frequent appreciative glances, or when they stopped to camp, avoiding his attempt to get her alone. Until she felt terrible for it. Catching the fleeting hurt in the narrowed corners of his hazel eyes and the tightening of his full lips the second night away from Oghren’s, Moira bowed her head and let her shoulders slump. He flirted. That’s what Zevran did. He rarely meant anything by it. Andraste’s knickers, he did it in front of Alistair for an entire year and the other man never batted an eye, trusting her feelings for him. She was the one letting things get complicated now. “Zev, I’m sorry.” Before he could draw away completely, she reached out and clasped his hand. He froze, his hazel eyes widening and searching her face.

“ _Mi querida_ , you do not need to apologize. You have done nothing wrong.” Zevran glanced over his shoulder at where Cullen stood brushing down Bill. “Cullen, please collect kindling for a fire.” The other man’s brown eyes regarded them, his face expressionless, the curry comb held tight in his hand against the mare’s neck. As Moira watched, he set his mouth in a thin line and tossed the comb somewhere near the horse’s feed bag and turned to leave, boots heavy in the damp earth, indicating his irritation. Zevran turned back to meet her eyes. “I have clearly overstepped. For that, I should apologize.” He moved to raise her hand to his lips.

She made a strangled sound in the back of her throat and yanked her hand out of his grasp. “That’s just it! You haven’t! You’ve done nothing different than you always have! I’m the one acting silly because I miss Alistair. I was suddenly worried that if I relaxed,” she started to run her fingers through her hair, forgetting the tight braids and nearly yanked her hair out by the roots. “Ow!” Zevran moved to help her, his brows drawn in concern but she waved him off, yanking out the pins and ties herself. “I was worried, that if I relaxed, let myself continue our friendship as if he were here, that….” She looked up from her task, one loop partially unfurled, to catch him watching her fingers with his full lips parted and his eyes unfocused. _That I would drag you into the nearest tent and lose Alistair forever._ “Zevran, are you even listening?”

“I do apologize, my dear Warden. What were you saying?” There was a glint in his eye, and a half smile playing about his lips as if he knew full well what she might have been about to say, but didn’t want her to say it. “I was _completely_ distracted by your pale fingers in your lovely dark hair. Does our dear King help you unbraid it frequently?”

Moira frowned, pausing in her task. “When I do braid it, yes. The ladies’ maids are scandalized, I assure you. Why?”

He closed his eyes and hummed in his throat. “That is something I wish to see before I die, truly. Might I help you this time? It will not be the same, I know.” He sat down on the ground, cross-legged and patted the ground in front of him.

Puzzled, she complied. “Thank you, Zev. It was getting somewhat painful to keep it like this.” She shivered as his blunted nails scraped along her scalp, combing out the knots.

“It is my pleasure, my Moira. Shall I help you with a simpler braid in the morning? I shall keep my flirting to a minimum, of course.” His deft fingers ghosted along the parts of her arms bared by the scant robes. She shivered.

“I told you, you don’t need to.”

“If you are certain.”

She knotted her fingers with his and drew his arm around her to lean against him. “Of course I am.” When Cullen returned with his arms full of kindling, though, Moira saw him pause as he set it down to feed the fire. While he worked, he watched her and Zevran companionably prepare a small dinner from the supplies Felsi had somehow snuck into Bill’s saddle bags. She sighed at the deliberately blank expression on his face. She caught Zevran’s frown in his direction and shook her head.

“Let him be. I’ll deal with it if it becomes an issue.” She held up the small portion of carrot still left. Zevran smirked and leaned over her shoulder. He closed his teeth around it, his lips covering her thumb and forefinger, sending a lance of aching fire through her. Involuntarily, she exhaled sharply.

“I shall allow you to deal with your recruit, my Warden.” He kissed her fingers before she could pull them away. “But do not let him think to continue to judge you as if he were still the Templar and you some wayward mage locked away in the Tower under his gaze.”

She nodded. “I will keep that in mind. Now, please add these carrots while I cut the chicken apart. How she managed to sneak an entire de-feathered chicken in our bags, I’ll never know.”

He ate another carrot and nodded. “Truly, Felsi could teach Leliana a few things about stealth.”

She elbowed him and winked. “Or you.”

He put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a true master! And if you did not currently possess a very sharp knife for dismembering fowl, I would teach you the error of such thinking!”

Moira shook her head and placidly returned to cutting the wing from the ribcage. “Mmm-hmm.”

“I am offended!”

“Take your offended self to get some more water before the stew boils dry.”

 

* * *

 

Breaking camp the next morning, Zevran had just finished a quick braid for her down her back when she froze, not quite believing what she was sensing. She got to her feet, slowly, her head cocked. She was barely conscious of Zevran scrambling to his feet, aware of what it meant when she or Alistair got that far away look in their eyes.

The smell always seemed to hit her first, that stench of sulfur and rotting mud and the soft dank places of the earth that housed things that used no eyes to see. She knew it was something other than smell, or the Mabari would know it sooner than her little elven nose, or Alistair’s human one, for that matter. Perrin had already trotted to her side, his hackles raised. From the “smell” it was a large band ahead, the pounding boots echoing in her skull. “Darkspawn,” she said, quietly, picking up her staff. Quickly, Zevran kicked dirt over the small fire and Cullen looped the reins of the horse over the saddle horn. If the worst happened, Bill needed to be able to run for Oghren’s tavern. They had camped in a wide clearing, large boulders sprinkling the area like some giant child’s abandoned toy blocks. Fortunately, there was a great deal of cover, but cover worked in the ‘spawn’s advantage as well. The band would emerge straight ahead from the forest that surrounded the small clearing.

Zevran loosened his wrists with a few practice swings. Cullen drew Oathkeeper and brought his shield to the front. “Time to get the blood flowing! Do we have a plan, my Warden?” She grinned at Zevran, adrenaline already coursing through her veins, making her very aware of her companions. Zevran’s presence filled his usual corner of her mind, as did Perrin’s. Cullen didn’t quite fit, not yet, but she could sense everything about him from the small blister that had formed on his left heel to the fact that he’d been too nervous to truly eat his fill of breakfast that morning. _Probably a good idea with the ‘Spawn on the way; they had a tendency to make the inexperienced throw up._ It didn’t help that his heart was pounding, though his jaw was clenched against his fear.

“Yes. Fetch,” she told him, grinning tightly as her nerves sung in anticipation. She threw a Lifeward over him and he glowed briefly green. He laughed, tossing his head back, and slipped quietly through the trees to lure the mindless darkspawn towards them.

Moira caught an apprehensive look crossing Cullen’s face, she sighed. “Wonderful. You’ve only ever fought in training, haven’t you?” He nodded, probably not trusting his voice. “Then, listen to me. I’ll be keeping you alive. You, in return, keep everything off my back and counter any hexes I can’t get to with your Mana Cleanse or Silence for any Darkspawn mages. They’re called Emissaries. Perrin knows what he’s doing, don’t worry about him. As does Zevran. Just try to keep up with me.” A roar and Zevran bursting through the trees cut off any further explanation. Moira gasped, already feeling a dozen different wounds piercing the assassin’s lithe body as he came back within range of her senses. She flung her energy at him, willing the wounds to heal just because she said so. Zevran vaulted over one of the large boulders, landing in front of her. He spun to slice at a glenlock that attempted to follow. One strike with Starfang was all he needed. “I’m beginning to like this blade,” Zevran crowed in triumph and launched himself at more.

Moira grinned in response, no breath for any more banter as Cullen’s wounds intruded on her focus. He wasn’t yet lit up with the red fire of a mortality hex, but he had four glenlocks and two hurlocks focused on him, each hitting them as hard as they were able. Oathkeeper flashed in the morning sunlight and a glenlock dropped away, wounded, but another would immediately take its place. Cullen was certainly keeping everything off her by attracting it all to him, but he wasn’t as experienced as Alistair. He was taking hits on his body instead of his shield. He wasn’t controlling the fight. Perrin was worrying the hurlocks around him, ripping out hamstrings and throats as often as the Mabari could get a clear lunge in, but Cullen wasn’t controlling the crowd enough to allow the Mabari to do his job. Zevran, on the other hand, rushed the Emissary leading the band of darkspawn, going after the biggest target in the most efficient manner as he usually did. He was also losing as the Emissary hit him with the mortality hex neither she nor Cullen were close enough to nullify and that she’d expected Cullen to be hit with. She grit her teeth and flung healing energy at all of them, following it with another Lifeward at Zevran. It wouldn’t get rid of the hex, but it might keep him from dying before she could get to him.

Then the worst happened. That last spell had left her trembling in exhaustion and she staggered as an arrow shot from the treeline struck her in the shoulder, interrupting her Tempest. The Lifeward around Zevran ran out before the hex did and he wasn’t fast enough to reach one of his many potions. Moira gasped in pain, feeling her own heartbeat stagger, as the Emissary got in a lucky shot with an ice spell and Zevran fell at its feet, unconscious.

Her vision went red with anger when she could no longer feel him. She slammed back lyrium, but it didn’t give her enough energy to Revive him. Cullen and the Mabari were on their own, that Emissary was going to die. She ran closer, its physical stench overpowering. Rage was dangerous. Rage was a beacon in the Fade, a signal through the Veil for all the demons and nightmares that hunted her, shouting that she was vulnerable at this very moment. But after her years of battle, she had learned to harness that rage. It didn’t master her, it didn’t ride her, it was fuel. She focused it and it burned cold.

Ice as frigid as that around her heart engulfed the Emissary on her word. A large stone, ripped from the substance of the Veil itself, shot forth from nowhere at the speed of a thought and with such force the Emissary shattered on contact. She turned her attention to the group around Cullen and her Mabari, both of whom were in flagging health, bleeding from several deep wounds. She refused to feel helpless at Perrin’s pain and his condition. At Cullen’s agony.

Rage still flowing through her, ice coating her heart and veins, she sent out wave after wave of lightning from her fingertips, the remaining hurlocks and genlocks convulsing in electrified agony. Cullen collapsed as a Hurlock got in one last lucky shot and his presence disappeared from her mind. The Mabari rushed to her side as fast as his wounded leg would carry him, but she could spare nothing to heal him. The surviving two hurlocks, one an Overseer with its horned helm, that had been focused on Cullen before he fell, headed towards her at a run. Her Mabari howled a challenge and charged but fell to an arrow in his throat from the archer in the treeline, his presence ripping from her mind as well. She screamed in agony and anger and flung a bolt of energy tingling and burning from her fingertips that turned into a lightning storm in the sky. The weaker hurlock fell instantly. She flung another column of ice at the Overseer with every ounce of contempt she could muster. And then sprinted for the treeline, the mantra for Haste falling from her lips to speed her way. The archer sent barrage after barrage of arrows at her, but she deflected each with a simple wave of her staff. She flash froze the hurlock archer as it attempted to flee from her and he suffered the same fate as the Emissary at the impact of another stone. Limping, she walked back, to stand alone in the middle of her storm, her rage still seething, her heart pounding. If anything had happened to Zevran or Perrin because of Cullen’s inability to fight, she’d make sure the Templar stayed dead.

Her Mabari sat up, groggily, his great canine head wavering from side to side. Moira crouched and managed to send a trickle of healing energy through him until she could remove the arrow without harming him further. Her sweet boy licked at her hand and whined, nudging her with his head and Moira, catching his meaning, cried, “Zevran!” She scrambled to her feet and ran to where he lay on the ground. He was sprawled, gracelessly where the Emissary had dropped him and where she’d left him. Guilt shot through the ice around her heart as she fell to her knees and gently lifted his head into her lap, testing his scalp for injuries with deft fingers.

“Ouch!” he winced, his hazel eyes fluttering open. “Gently, my Warden! I think that Emissary tried to remove my head with the simple expediency of bashing it in.”

“Actually, I think it knocked you onto a rock,” she gestured to the blood spattered rock she’d lifted him off of.

“That would explain the splitting pain, then,” Zevran relaxed back into her lap, smiling up at her. Moira quickly pulled an injury kit out of his pack and wrapped the bandage around his head. She finished and turned his head around to check his pupils. “I am fine, my Warden. Not that I do not mind the attention. I could stay in your lap all day.” At her snort, he took her concerned hands from inspecting his head and nodded toward the Mabari who was still bleeding. The arrow had come out, but she hadn’t yet bandaged him.

“Perrin, c’mere, boy.” Awkwardly, with Zevran’s head still in her lap, she wrapped a bandage around the wardog’s thick neck. In gratitude, the Mabari swiped his tongue across his mistress’s face, from chin to forehead. Moira laughed and hugged him again.

“Ugh! Always with the drool!” Moira laughed as Zevran carefully got to his feet and began the unpleasant task of rifling through the darkspawn corpses. They were more disgusting than bandits, but they were no less thieving.

Moira paused in her walk over to Cullen. She took a deep breath and stooped to scratch Perrin’s ears. It wasn’t Cullen’s fault he was badly undertrained. Templars weren’t supposed to deal with large numbers of foes like this. No wonder the Blood Mages were running circles around the Templars. She cracked a half smile at her own terrible pun. No wonder Uldred’s abominations had managed to sweep Kinloch so swiftly. She sighed. Good, she was calm. She needed to readjust their tactics around having an inexperienced shield. She knelt in front of Cullen and quietly examined his head wound. It wasn’t as bad as Zevran’s, but she needed to bandage it anyway or it would continue to bleed into his eyes. With everyone but her injured, they were going to be making camp early. Brown eyes fluttered open and his full lips twisted into a scowl through his facial hair. “I screwed up.”

She lifted his head to get the bandage around it. “I actually think you did your best. I should have thought about your training sooner.”

If it were possible, his scowl deepened. “My training was adequate. You can’t blame the blade for the way it was forged!”

Moira let him sit up and handed him an elfroot potion to take care of anything internal. She sighed. “Well, there are two things wrong with what you just said. You’re not a sword or a weapon of any kind. And if it’s the last thing I do, I will somehow beat that into your thick skull.” His scowl changed to a full on glower. She rolled her eyes. “And two, you weren’t forged, no matter what the Chantry told you. You were a boy and you were taught, not forged.” Maker, he had to be at least as bright as Alistair. How in Andraste’s name had Alistair escaped the mental conditioning and Cullen hadn’t?

Oh, yes. Alistair had spent the better part of his childhood angrier than a caged bronto with a sore tooth. That was probably all it took.

But then, look how long it had taken her to do the same. First step was admitting it had been done. _Forgive me, Jowan._

Ignoring Cullen’s incredulous stare, she stood up and slung her pack across her back again. Zevran finished looting the corpses and handed her the three lyrium vials and two health potions he’d gotten. Cullen fell in behind, leading Bill. The horse was surprisingly well-trained enough to not run off at the stench of darkspawn. The Mabari, barking, charged ahead, until he was leading Moira. Within an hour, they reached a clearing that was defensible with a small stream running along one edge.

Moira, suddenly incredibly tired of the smell of ‘spawn blood, threw her pack down on the ground and begun unbraiding her hair. “Gentlemen, meet our home for the night. I’m going up-stream to clean off. Anyone but the dog follows me, he will be electrocuted.” She pulled a few things out of her pack and headed upstream, just around a bend to the other side of one of the boulders. Her mage robes were covered in blood and they stank. _She_ stank. She wondered if this was the last time they would get clean, though surely they’d been through worse. Dragon’s blood was far more clingy, for instance.

She stripped, immersing the robes in the shallows weighting them down with a rock. She then waded into the stream, catching her breath as the swiftly flowing ice-cold stream swirled against her skin. She took several deep breaths as she crouched down to sink in up to her neck and tilted her head back to rinse the blood out of her hair, grateful for any time to herself.

Even if time to herself meant she could sit in the icy cold water of the creek and pretend the tears streaming from her eyes were just the spray from the nearby rapids, and not from the ache of missing Alistair.


	6. Should The Sky Tumble And Fall

**Chapter 6: Should The Sky Tumble and Fall**

 

“You don’t honestly expect me to believe she’s all right by herself?” Cullen demanded as he threw his pack on the ground.  Every instinct drilled into him from the age of thirteen onward ordered him to _follow that mage, watch her, watch over her_ .  And it immediately conflicted with _follow orders at all costs_ . And then, _you can’t trust a mage.  They’ll turn on you._  Cullen sought refuge from the conflict in anger and started down the path along the stream, his hand on the hilt of his blade.  Zevran interposed himself, appearing ahead of him in that way he’d figured out the elf was prone to do in order to casually lean against a tree, his arms crossed.  Not that Cullen was fooled by the assassin’s nonchalance.

 

“You truly wish to die young, yes?  Very well, I will not stop you.”  Cullen stopped, frowning, as the other man bowed slightly, gesturing him on ahead.  When Zevran saw he hadn’t moved, he straightened up with a grin.  “You saw what she did this afternoon, yes?  Moira is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, with or without our assistance.”   _Mages shouldn’t be alone!_ Cullen clenched his teeth.  Zevran was right, though.  She certainly was capable.    _She could be plotting against us right now!_  Cullen closed his eyes, trying to will his fear away.  He knew that was what that second voice was.  It was the voice that had led him to beat those apprentices.  His stomach turned at the memory of his fist impacting unprotected flesh.  Wide brown eyes staring up at him, pleading.  His eyes flew open as Zevran clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, walking back to their packs.  “Set up the tents like she said.”  His voice made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion.

 

Cullen stood wrestling with his training and his fear, his gauntleted fists clenched.   _She shouldn’t be alone.  You were given an order by your commanding officer.  She’s a mage!  She’s Moira!  A friend!  Is she?  Is she_ really?   _Can you_ really trust _that? Really, truly?_ Anger asserted itself over the fear for once.   _Yes.  Today, for now, I will._  He spun on his heel and turned back to the small camp to find Zevran had begun building a fire pit.  The two men worked in silence for awhile.  Cullen attempted to ignore the fact that they both stank of Darkspawn blood, and the fact that he really would like to get out of the heavy armor. However, he found he’d rather focus on the discomfort and the smell then allow the fear to overtake him again. “Does it always smell this bad?”

 

“Hmm?  Oh, the blood?  Yes, I am afraid so.  Not half so bad as undead, or demon ichor.  Those may be worse.”  Zevran straightened up and held out a handful of his long blond hair looking at mournfully.  “Though I do so wish we had all bathed together.  This will take forever to get clean now.”  Cullen snorted but had to sympathize.  He didn’t even want to think about getting the mess out of his own tightly-curled hair.

 

A stream of cursing in Moira’s contralto and the fiery crackle of lightning followed by the yelp and growl of a wolf made the two men look at each other, eyes wide.  Zevran was the first to grab his blades and streak for the place Moira had disappeared.  Cullen scrambled to his feet, hampered by his own armor, and grabbed his sword.  He sprinted after Zevran as fast as the damp ground would allow him without being mired in the mud.

 

* * *

 

When Zevran reached Moira, she was standing on the bank of the creek, stark naked and dripping wet.  Her long black hair hung in damp waves to the middle of her back; he let his eyes follow the lines of dripping water from her raven locks down over the two dimples just above her round butt over the curves of her muscular thighs and down her shapely calves.  The danger had already passed, three wolf corpses lay in the shallows at her feet, her mabari panting on the shoreline.  Zevran let himself briefly fantasize about tracing the droplets’ paths with his tongue and feeling her shiver under his touch.  Cullen’s noisy and abrupt arrival brought an end to such fantasies, as Moira spun at his approach, her hands raised to cast another spell.  She had that wild-eyed look about her that meant she was still far too ready to fight.  She had been known to accidentally fire a stray lightning bolt or two at an ally before her urge to protect herself sorted friend from foe.  All in all, it was an attractive quality in someone he cared about, if annoying in a mark.  Zevran dropped his blades and held up his hands, “My dear Moira, do you intend to fight us as the Maker made you?”

 

Zevran held himself still as he watched recognition return to her blue eyes and the tension leave her slight form, her arms relaxing to her sides.  He heard, rather than saw Cullen step forward, as well, and waved the Templar back.  There was no need to even hint at any of those skills at the moment.  Zevran waited, letting his eyes roam over her soft curves, knowing she would be irritated with him for looking, but unable to stop himself.   _Sweet Andraste, I miss her._  He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat as she straightened up, the muscles in her stomach flexing.  He could feel the pressure of the air release as she retracted her spell.  Moira refused to bashfully dive back into the water or try to otherwise hide her modesty as any other mage raised in the Tower would, or as she would have when he first met her. She straightened up and stood in front of him.  Her blue eyes glared a challenge, a challenge to look more, a challenge to put his hands on her and find out if her skin was as soft as he remembered.   If Cullen weren’t there, he quite honestly was not certain what he would have done.  As it was, his hands ached to remember the weight of her small, firm breasts, the sharpness of her hips.  She snatched her clothes from the ground, leaving the pack with their supplies, slender body fairly vibrating in rage.

 

As she stood in front of them, she caused Cullen to stand stiffly at attention, his eyes somewhere over her left ear.  Zevran felt his lips widen in a grin as she held his gaze.  “Not one word.”  He so dearly wanted to reply, but she pressed a finger damp with creek water against his lips.   “Not one single word.”  So he did the only thing he knew that would get her back for her challenge.  He opened his mouth and closed his lips around the end of her finger, swirling his tongue around the tip to wipe the water off.  Her lips parted on a gasp and she yanked her hand away with another glare and stormed off, her mabari bounding after her with an excited bark.

 

Zevran glanced over at the Templar, interested to see what the other man’s reaction was, and was amused to find Cullen’s eyes following the woman’s backside until it disappeared around the boulder.  He had a very confused expression on his face as if he almost didn’t recognize Moira.  Zevran filed that information away for a later time.  Cullen finally turned to see Zevran’s amused gaze on him and snarled at the elf, “Shut up.  Just shut up.”  Zevran laughed until he had to lean on the boulder for support.  

 

“Our dear Moira is quite the spitfire.  I suggest we stay right here until she’s had time to get dressed, my friend.  I’d prefer to not be on the receiving end of an electrical storm tonight.”  Zevran said when could catch his breath.   “Told you she could handle herself.”  Cullen snorted.

 

“You want us to stay here and give her time to calm down -- but you do your best to irritate her at every opportunity.  I really do not understand your relationship with each other.”  Cullen shook his head, beginning to unfasten his armor.

 

“There are times, my friend, when I do not either.  Still, this is the way we have been friends as long as we have known each other.  To alter anything now would involve many hurt feelings.”  Still leaning against the boulder, the assassin settled down to give his Warden time to get dressed. Much as he’d prefer to irritate her more by going back to camp and watching her don her clothing, and perhaps hindering her as much as possible, he knew she would not appreciate undermining the tenuous authority she was attempting to enforce over her erstwhile recruit. The former Templar seemed to think of her as some sort of apprentice still in the Tower under his guard.  No matter that Moira had reunited a nation in civil war and stopped a Blight almost before it started simply by force of will. Zevran’s hand went to his right shoulder, the small round scar that had never healed. It had turned white in the months or so since he’d gotten it; he hoped it never faded. She had been the one to give it to him.

 

_Zevran had proposed an Antivan massage to Moira, watching her pale skin flush from her neck to the tips of her delicately pointed ears. It had been a rather cold-blooded maneuver on his part, at first, to seduce the female Grey Warden, especially after Alistair had proven oblivious to his initial attempts, as well as already utterly besotted with Moira.  Zevran had been completely surprised when Moira accepted. Even more astonishing, she was enthusiastic.   He’d entered her tent, clad in only his leather breeches and linen shirt, his small satchel of oils in hand to find his Warden already completely nude, a towel modestly around her hips.  She lay on her stomach and peered over her bare shoulder at him, “This is how it’s done, right?  I read something… in the Tower, I mean.”_

 

 _A thousand questions had flooded his mind such as,_ When could they go back to the Circle to visit this marvelous library?   _But he forced himself to swallow to moisten his suddenly dry throat,  “Oh. Uh, yes, my dear Moira.  That is how one prepares for a massage such as this.”  He completely lost control of everything from that point forward._

 

_An Antivan massage did require a practitioner to get close to their subject, armor was rather a detriment to that.  And to be quite honest, it was an excuse to have as little between them as possible.  He had not expected her to remove every stitch of clothing, including her smalls, in anticipation of him putting his hands on her.   He’d nearly dropped to his knees, instead of knelt, there in her tent, hands trembling like some scared boy.  How she unnerved him and made his head spin!_

 

_“Did I forget something?”  She’d asked, reaching up to move her hair out of the way.  She brushed against him as she moved and every drop of blood left his head and went south, making his breeches very uncomfortable._

 

 _It took him a moment to catch his breath.  To chastise himself.  “Of course not,_ Bellissima.   _I have everything I need.”_ Except the ability to think.  _“Shall we get started?”_

 

He ignored the sounds of Cullen bathing hurriedly in the stream and closed his eyes, savoring the memory of her hair falling over his chest as she kissed the crow tattoo over his left side, the feel of her cold, small fingers as she explored him, to see what would make him gasp. He let her have her fun, her inexperienced fingers and then tentatively, her mouth, roaming over him. He’d realized shortly after meeting her, the young elf mage was an innocent, locked up in her tower, despite her audacity in stripping down for a mere massage. _She trusted me, even then.  Me, the man sent to kill her_.  She may have been the first real virgin he’d ever taken to his bed.  So many claimed purity that weren’t.  Hers was real.  While he hadn’t hurt her, she was clearly awkward, if eager.

 

 _He had her gasping for breath twice before he stole her innocence, his tongue and fingers finding her secrets that only her own explorations had shown her in the scant privacy she’d found in the Circle.  When she lay on her cloak, boneless and breathless, he’d been unable to wait any longer.  She’d shivered as he entered, moving slowly, to ensure not to hurt her.  Her fingers tightened on his arms.  He would find the half-moons of her nails embedded there in the morning.   “We may stop, if you wish,” he told her, as her body tightened around him, fraying his control._   Please don’t say stop. 

 

_Her eyes wide in the dimness of the tent, she adjusted her hips, giving him more room.  “If you stop now, Zevran Arainai, I will never speak to you again.”  She tightened her legs around him and he had to marshal his hard-won discipline as she pulled him closer against her, sheathing him to the hilt within her.  When he moved with her, she matched him, their bodies melted together.  He didn’t know if it was already due to their familiarity with each other on the battlefield, or something more frightening and more profound and he didn’t have the wits to figure it out at the moment.  She held his gaze until he collapsed against her, wrapping her in his arms, burying his face in her hair, needing her closer._

 

 _Her soft, white skin became slick with sweat as she clung to him, her breathing even more ragged than when he’d used his fingers or his tongue.  Before he could turn his head to let her scream her pleasure into his mouth, her sharp white teeth bit down near his collarbone, hard, to stifle her cries, louder than any he’d yet wrung from her. He’d planned on making her cry out a few more times that night, but that bite ruined him. Pain, pleasure, surprise, his control wrenched away by her small perfect teeth and he was trembling, his head buried in her neck to stifle his own passion.  She’d curled up against him after that, her head on his heart, covering the crow tattoo, neither able to face the chilly trek across the camp to clean up.  That night, he’d wrapped an arm around her, propping his head on his arm to look at her as she settled against him.  The protectiveness he felt was foreign, alien.  He watched her yawn, exhausted.  Her eyes drooped closed, her sweat-soaked hair damp against his skin.  He’d whispered to himself, “You are a fool, Zevran._ Business _.”  The half moons of her lashes were dark smears against her pale cheeks. Of course, even then, he wasn’t listening to himself._

 

_He never called her attention to the the bite to let her heal it._

 

Zevran turned back to the pond at the sounds of Cullen leaving the shallow water.  Reminiscing wouldn’t get him anything but an uncomfortably hard cock.  He sighed at the ex-Templar that watched him warily as he dried off with the lack of care only someone who’d grown up in a barracks could exhibit.  Alistair still had that.  Zevran had done his best to keep his own admiration of his friend’s physique unobtrusive.   _You had better be all right, you idiot man._  “Ah!  My turn, then?”  The elf stood up, “She’s had plenty of time to get dressed by now.” He sniffed the air; the unmistakable scent of the beginnings of rabbit stew carried to them on the slight breeze, “And if I’m not mistaken, start dinner.”  That would explain where the dog had gotten to while Moira was being attacked by wolves.  Stew was essentially the only thing she could cook, but she did it well.  Sten, strangely, had been the best cook in their camp.  Wynne had only been slightly better than Alistair.  “Let us see about your training. After I’ve washed the darkspawn blood out of _my_ hair that is.”

 

Cullen rubbed the back of his still-bandaged head.  “Is training a good idea?  Won’t that make this worse?” The boy looked rather rakish with his hair curling over the white of the bloody bandage.  Zevran snorted at himself and shook his head.

 

“Sooner or later, you will have to fight while injured.  I’d rather you train, with us, than later, say, with an Ogre.” Cullen paled.  Zev contented himself with a laugh as he shucked his own bloodied leathers and waded into the pool, glad, at least to finally be rid of the stench.  

 

After his quick bath, and still rubbing the towel on his hair, he and Cullen rounded the boulder to find Moira sitting on a log in front of the fire.  Her now-clean robes were hanging from tree branches to dry.  She wore a clean white linen shirt and the grey breeches she’d begun the day in.  The white shirt was greatly oversized.  Undisguised by the grey vest, he recognized it as Alistair’s shirt, the size unmistakable.    He felt his heart contract for her, and a little in jealousy.  Both in that she wore the man’s shirt and that she could.  He was beginning to admit to himself how much he missed Alistair, too.

 

A pot sat in the banked coals to one side of the fire and he could smell the rabbit stew even better.    Zevran chuckled to himself as Cullen attempted to find a place near the fire that wasn’t in a direct line of sight to Moira, nor next to her.   He feared the young man was never going to stop blushing.  He was possibly worse than even Alistair had been.  Alistair, at least, hid behind his humor.  The assassin flopped gracefully down next to Moira, leaning against her shoulder.

 

She shrugged him off and looked at him. He flashed her a quick grin, glad to inhale the clean scent of her soap and the oil she used in her hair, under the heavy notes of the stew.  “Dinner isn’t ready at all.  I just put the meat in.”  She gestured with her spoon. “I’ll give you first whack at teaching him to be a proper shield.”   _Ah, still irritated.  I wonder what has irked her beyond the wolves and our attempt at a rescue.  Surely she wouldn’t expect me to let her be attacked and not investigate?_  He frowned at her and she sighed.  “Sorry, Zev.  I have a headache and I miss Alistair.  A lot.”

 

Zevran nodded, taking her free hand in his.  “That I do understand, _Bellissima_.  But we can’t let it overwhelm us.”  He brushed his lips against her temple.  “I miss him, too.  But we will be reunited with our Alistair soon, yes?”  She leaned away and held his gaze for a moment before reluctantly nodding.  “Now, is Perrin’s wound well enough to allow him to assist, or should he rest more?”

 

Moira glanced at her mabari where he lay sprawled by the fire, his eyes closed, dozing.  “Let him rest. If he wishes, he’ll get up and help.”  

 

“Of course.”  To be honest, Zevran felt like sleeping for a few hours himself.  But first, he needed to teach the ex-Templar how to handle more than just mages.  “Come, Cullen.  Let’s teach you how to fight a true rogue.”

 

Cullen’s brows drew together.  “I am aware of how to fight a rogue, Zevran.”

 

“You know how to fight a tame Chantry rogue, my dear boy.  You do not know how to handle a true master of the art of deception.”  Zevran walked over to his pack to find his practice blades.

 

Cullen snorted.  “I’ll let you know when I see one of those.”

 

Zevran had to laugh at that.  And then show him what it really meant.

 

* * *

 

Moira kept her eyes on the stew as it bubbled in the pot.  The rhythmic action of stirring the thickening broth allowed her mind to wander.  It always wandered to Alistair, making the ache in her heart worse.  She’d thought the act of traveling would be doing something more constructive than sitting in Denerim, missing him, thinking she saw him around every corner.  Listening to the whispers that she sent him away to seize power.  But instead, it was bringing back memories of their years on the road, desperate, scared, and determined.  It hadn’t been all that long since defeating the Archdemon.  But she frequently felt three times her own age.  A contemporary of Wynne instead of her protege.

 

The sound of Zevran’s sword impacting Cullen’s shield and _suddenly she was standing in front of Alistair, uncertain how to hold Spellweaver.  She was determined to figure out how to use the skills the spirit in the phylactery had given her.  They’d gone off a little ways from camp after dinner.  Far enough that the campfire was a small sun in the distance, but close enough a shout for help on either side would still be heard.  Alistair stood, his stance confident, his shield at the ready._

 

 _She laughed, her face on fire, “I don’t want to hurt you!”  He wasn’t wearing armor, just a plain white shirt unlaced at the throat and the tight black leather trousers that he wore under his armor.  This particular practice session was just to get her used to the impact of her sword on a shield._  

 

 _He laughed then, “_ You _are not going to hurt me!  Now hit me!”_

 

_She struck him, weakly.  He laughed, again, theatrically glancing at the front of his shield.  It wasn’t the one he normally used, just one they intended to sell later.  “What was that?  Rain?  A feather?”  He frowned at it for effect, shaking it slightly._

 

 _Moira stuck her tongue out at him, “Fine, I’ll hit you!” She drew the sword back and hit the shield as hard as she could.  Her hand and wrist went numb and she dropped the sword, grabbing her wrist.  “Ow!”_  

 

 _Alistair threw his shield down and grabbed her hand.  She shivered at his calloused fingers as they pried open her numbed fingers and soothed her stinging palm with gentle, circular strokes.  She felt her face heat for an entirely different reason.   “See?  That’s why you have to get used it.”_  

 

_Irritated at how much she wanted him to keep going, maybe use those blunt, calloused fingers somewhere other than just her palm, she yanked her hand back and glared up at him.  His eyes crinkled in a smile as he looked down at her.  Her heart skipped a beat.  She bent to pick her sword up, “Defend yourself, Templar!”_

 

_Mockingly, he picked up his shield and cowered behind it, “Oh no, the scary mage is going to hurt me! Don’t hurt me!”  She hit the shield with the sword.  He peeked over his shield, “What hit me?  A mouse?”_

 

_“Ugh!” She’d yelled in frustration and hit the shield again as hard as she could._

 

_“Much better! I even felt it that time!” He’d taunted, “Now put your back into it!”_

 

_Thoroughly angry with his taunting, she’d focused and put her magic behind her strength, hitting him with everything she had.  The flimsy practice shield shattered and Alistair fell back on his ass, still laughing, long limbs sprawling.  “I knew you could do it!”  Spellweaver had cut through the shield and left a huge cut on his arm where blood welled and was starting to drip onto his white shirt._

 

 _She dropped to her knees beside him, “Maker’s breath, you_ idiot!   _I cut you!  Are you alright?”_

 

_He glanced at his arm, “This little scratch? I’ll be fine.  Might hurt like hell in the morning though.”_

 

_She took the shield off his arm, carefully unbuckling the straps, then closed her eyes and gathered her energy to heal him.  When she opened her eyes his face was inches away from hers.  Before she could move away, he kissed her.  It was only the second kiss he’d ever given her and her knees went weak, the top of her head seemed like it was floating somewhere above her.   He pulled back, too quickly. Entirely off-balance, she fell into his broad chest.  He put his hands on her shoulders to help her right herself, “I – I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”  He began to push her upright, away from him, his eyes looking everywhere but at her.  “I should help you up!”  Embarrassed, his face had drained of color in the moonlight._

 

 _Impulsively, she placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled him back to her.  She returned his shy, stolen kiss with interest, moving closer until she was straddling his lap, her mage robes hiked up to give her legs room to kneel on either side of his hips.  His hands dropped from her shoulders to her legs and sent a trembling fire up her spine as they slid up her thighs to her hips.  They finally settled, holding her tightly to him, his hands cupping her ass, hot through the silk of her robes.  Their kiss deepened, tongues entwining, Moira’s heart pounding in her ears, every nerve ending on fire._   _Her fingers tangling in the sweat-dampened hair at the base of his neck, just beginning to curl because there’d been no time to trim it.  He’d tasted of sweat and mint and rabbit and Alistair._

 

Zevran’s laughter brought her back to the present just in time to avoid spilling the stew into the fire.  With a start, she realized it was beginning to stick to the bottom of the pot.  Zevran had told her they were over shortly after that second kiss with Alistair.  She had no idea if he’d seen them, or if Alistair had confessed.  She herself had been too confused to make up her mind at the time.  

 

So they’d made it up for her.

 

* * *

 

Cullen glared at the elf taunting him.  The assassin was fast, he had to give him that, and was as he’d claimed, difficult to predict.   But then, Cullen reasoned, the elf had had plenty of practice evading someone with his skills during the Blight.  And his head was killing him.  “Alright, stop!”  The young man yelled, panting, his sword and shield hanging from sore arms.  Sweat ran down his face in rivulets.   

 

Zevran laughed, “I agree.”  The elf ran his fingers through the sweat encrusted hair on his head.   “I’d like to wash up before eating, anyway.”  The mabari gave a woof in agreement where he lay near Moira, tongue lolling out of his mouth then ascertaining that no more fun was to be had, he turned back to his mistress and threw himself back down at her feet to look pitifully up at her for scraps, the stub of his tail wagging furiously.

 

Cullen unstrapped his shield from his arm and leaned it against a tree.  Zevran had disappeared, probably for the “washing up” he claimed to need.  He laid his sword down next to his shield and began working on unbuckling the armor.  Legs and arms were easy and gave him time to watch Moira.  Before her Harrowing , before he’d agreed to be the one to kill her should she fail, before he’d been tortured, she’d been all he’d ever thought a mage should be.  And the tiny, nearly involuntary daydreams where neither were what they were, well… He’d barely acknowledged them to himself.  Or so he thought.  Till the demons.  And the Blood Mages.  He sighed.  

 

He was a Templar, though, and she a mage.  And mages were literally, for most of their armored guardians, a walking temptation.  Templars were almost always male, priests were always female.  But priests got to leave and see the world, and not all of them took vows of chastity.  Templars assigned to the Tower, or trained in it from a young age, like he had been, were just as confined as the mages, or so he’d always thought.  They weren’t forced to vows, though, thankfully.  But some felt they were… _encouraged_.  Thinking of a few of the village girls, that was not a vow he had any illusions of ever keeping.

 

But mages weren’t sworn to be chaste.  In that case, they were even freer than the Templars.  A male mage having a crush on a fellow female mage could act on it with discretion.  Of course, he was beginning to see how wrong _that_ particular assumption was.  A Templar finding a mage attractive was doomed.  Then there were the teachings, the indoctrination.  He’d realized in the last few days most of that was to deepen the division between mage and Templar.  It was hard to befriend someone who might suddenly consort with demons, or who was a gateway for those demons to enter the world.  The blood mages led by Uldred had found only the edges of his regard for her.  They thought it mere lust.  Had they found his actual admiration for Moira, well… She might be a mage, but there were worse people he could think of that could be his commanding officer.  Had they tried to ferret that out, he doubted he would have ever trusted another person. _Do you really?  Trust her?  She could kill you with a gesture.  Look at her.  Are you certain that’s her?_

 

He tightened his fist around the strap, his hands shaking. _Yes.  I am.  Shut up._

 

He watched her as she sat, lost in happy thought, as he unbuckled his armor.  At least he hoped it was happy because she smiled as she stirred the pot.   Her hair still hung damp down her back, soaking the thin material of her white shirt until it was sheer.  He blushed and almost tripped over his own feet, trying to unbuckle the shin guards.  She tucked a lock of hair behind her pointed ear, something she always did while concentrating.  He remembered watching her in the library, standing stoically in his armor at the end of the stacks as she walked back and forth, her nose deep in a book, her fingers repeatedly tucking the same lock of hair behind her ear as she studied.   Rage threatened to fill him again, rage at being left alive, of having the luxury of watching her while so many of his brothers lay dead.  Rage at her for sparing him.  He fumbled for the straps. _She will kill us all!_

 

She must have heard him because suddenly she was there.  “Here, let me.  I know what a pain it is to get out of this stuff alone.”  He nearly choked on his breath as the scent of the roses in her hair oil threatened to overwhelm him.  Her small sure fingers worked to unbuckle the straps.  He stood trembling, the war in his heart and mind leaving no prisoners.   _She should be locked up!  She saved us all!  She’s a danger!  She’s Moira!  She’s never been a danger!  She’s a mage!  She’s more than that!_ “Blessed are they who stand before/ The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. / Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.”

 

He didn’t realize he’d recited the Benedictions passage out loud until she paused and looked up at him.  He grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet.  It felt so small and fragile in his hands, made his hands feel overly huge.  His rage had won the war.  “Did you enjoy it?”  he hissed at her.  He could see puzzlement in her eyes, those eyes as blue as the depths of Lake Calenhad in the winter, deep enough to drown, twice as treacherous.  “Did you _enjoy_ seeing me imprisoned like some common criminal?  Tortured?  Did you like seeing every Templar you ever knew slaughtered and possessed?  All my friends, my brothers and sisters?” he snarled.   He could tell he was hurting her wrist by the way her lips twisted and turned white at the edges.

 

“Did I enjoy seeing the boy I’d once called friend imprisoned and tortured?”  She said, her voice soft.  “Is that what you’re asking me?”

 

“All you’ve ever done is torture me.  You’ve tortured me from the day I met you. They just found a weapon sharp enough to wear away at me!”  He felt triumphant at that.

 

“You never had feelings for me, Cullen.  Not until a Desire Demon twisted our friendship into something unrecognizable.  You can’t even remember the truth, can you?”  With a flick of her wrist, she broke his grasp, glaring at him.   _That’s new._  He actually approved of her ability to do that.   _A mage, defending herself.  And that’s a good thing?_    His eyes followed her back to the fire in time to see Zevran standing on the other side of it, his hair and chest dripping wet, wearing only his pants and crow tattoo on the left side of his chest and the thorned rose on his right biceps with several other tattoos Cullen couldn’t decipher.  The elven assassin made a show of putting away a throwing knife, and meeting the Templar’s eyes in what was clearly a challenge.  The still-wounded dog sat at the elf’s feet, staring steadily at Cullen as well.   _Yes, it is a good thing.  What were you going to do?  Beat her like those apprentices?_  He collapsed onto one of the logs and put his face in his hands.  His head was throbbing.  

 

_Good.  I deserve that.  Andraste preserve me, what is wrong with me?_


	7. Won't Be Afraid

His eyes still fixed on the larger man with his face in his hands, Zevran sat down across from Moira on one of the jagged rocks dotting the small clearing.  He leaned over to wring the water from his hair, shifting his eyes from Cullen to where she stood, calmly stirring the stew. “Did he hurt you?” he asked.  He watched a little longer to find that her serenity was, in fact, a ruse.  Her hand shook where it held the rough wooden spoon and there were angry red marks on her other wrist where Cullen’s larger hand had grabbed her.  Zevran’s stomach twisted and his pulse sped faster as his eyes fixed on those marks.  

The Mabari whined and flopped down at his feet. The dog gave his damp fingers a lick, distracting him out of the sudden, deep abyss the need to tear Cullen limb from limb had dropped him into.

“No, he didn’t.” She looked over at Zevran, her blue eyes holding his.   _Steady…. She would not want this.  This is not Naische._ He unclenched his fists.

“Do not lie to me, Moira.  I see the marks on your wrist.  If he does that again, I will kill him myself.”  Zevran projected his voice loudly enough for Cullen to hear.  The abyss yawned at the edge of his vision.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cullen look up, startled, his eyes going to Moira’s wrist immediately.  It was quite satisfying to see that handsome face blanch and the chiseled jaw drop open in shock.  

* * *

Moira, concentrating on their dinner, missed the by-play.  “He is so sodding angry. It’s palpable. How does someone get to be that angry?”  

Zevran gave a one-shouldered shrug, wringing out his hair, trying unsuccessfully not to imagine Cullen’s thick neck under his own slender fingers, the handsome face turning red from lack of air.  He took a deep breath and glanced to where the ex-Templar slumped on a nearby rock, his head turned from the elves.  “You torture someone enough,” Zevran said, meeting Cullen’s eyes when he finally turned to look at them again, “and that is all that they can remember. Sunshine and moonlight, satin, leather, flowers, pretty girls and pretty boys, they go away.” His voice was matter-of-fact.  

A flush crept up Cullen’s face from his neck, letting Zevran know some of his words had struck home.   _I will not be sympathetic._  “Some start thinking they deserve it. Some start liking it.  Some need to cause it in return.”  

Cullen flinched.  

Certain no more water could be wrung out of his hair, Zevran pulled a comb out of a pocket and began to work on the tangles.  This was not going to be pleasant.  He winced at the first tug, but kept going, still keeping his eyes on the other man, feeling the need to strangle him abate. “Few can put it aside and move on.  It is a very difficult task to leave such pain behind.  Especially when one thinks one deserves it.”  

Cullen jerked his eyes away at that, glaring at the dirt beneath his feet.  

 _Oho!  I have struck home with that thrust!_  Zevran smiled to himself at his own jest then winced at the pain from another snarl.

“Did you? Move on?”  Moira paused in her stirring, watching the rhythmic movement as he worked on that snarl.  

 _I love when she reads my mind.  Though perhaps it is a bit frightening?_  Zevran looked at her, and felt the old mask slip into place.   _Distance, neutrality.  It’ll only hurt if you let it._  “Sometimes, I fall asleep and I am still in the Crows, strapped to a table. Then I wake up and realize I have you to thank for my life, _Belissima_.”  He shrugged, then winced as the comb found another large tangle.  “Ach.  But!  Much more of this and I will weep. And you have told me that I cannot weep on your magical _bosom_.”  He grinned.

She laughed, shaking her head at him. “You are incorrigible, Zevran.  Whatever would I do without you?” She stood up and walked over to him.

He tried to lean away, not wanting to risk her white shirt against his damp chest, but she bent to hug him anyway.  The warmth of her body pressed against his chased away the growing chill of the evening air.  Old memories fought to surface and taint this time with her.  She turned her face outward away from his neck. She laid her head on his shoulder, giving him a face full of her wonderful hair, enveloping him in the roses and cinnamon and faint vanilla from the oils and soaps she’d used earlier.

Zevran indulged himself and reciprocated, letting her rescue him from the old memories. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight against him. Part of him, for just one moment, wanted the rest of the world to go away.  But, she wasn’t his to hold.   So, when she moved, he released her.  

“Thank you,” she said.  Moira placed a kiss on his cheek, her dry lips soft. She turned and went back to checking the stew. Without looking up, she asked, “Do you need me to help braid your hair before it dries?”

“That might be a good idea.  I can then help with yours as well.”  Zevran sighed, putting the comb away for the moment. He glanced in Cullen’s direction. “Be careful.  He’s been watching you, Moira.”  The other man was occupied in cleaning his armor and did not seem to be paying attention to either Zevran or Moira.  But just in case, Zevran leaned closer and lowered his voice.  “Your faithful Mabari might not always fetch me in time, and you may be forced to do something you shall forever regret.”

She straightened and looked at the elf. “You’re right.” She looked toward Cullen’s broad back as he bent to repair a twisted link the chain shirt. “We were once friends, you know, back at the Tower.”

“My dear Warden, you do not have to explain anything.” He sat down cross-legged and helped himself to the stew, giving a wounded look in response to Moira’s scowl.  She rolled her eyes and handed him a spoon, collecting her own bowl and one for Perrin, who sat up, eagerly panting.

She was close enough he could feel the warmth of her body along his, and continued.  “After he took his vows, he was always there. Mages and Templars, we aren’t allowed to associate with one another. To fraternize. The only time we were allowed to be in the same room was chantry and religious lessons.”  Absently, her fingers reached down to scratch the Mabari’s ears as he hurriedly wolfed down his share. Zevran watched her as she stared in the direction of the forest, her eyes unfocused.  She needed to tell this, it seemed.  To explain, though he did not need it.   “He’d follow me. I didn’t discourage him.  Completely against the rules, of course. There were rumors that some Templars watched us bathe. When he stood guard outside the baths, there seemed to be less of the Templars that made us uncomfortable.  He would stand guard in the library when I was assigned there.  I -- I had fewer run ins with certain other assholes who thought elves were… well, you know.”  She sighed, and quickly ate some of her stew, chewing thoughtfully.  

“I do know.”  He told her as she met his eyes.  “The Crows were not much different.  As I believe we discussed once before.”  

She nodded and swallowed.   “Before my Harrowing, a day or so before,  we… talked.  About whether anything between us was wise.” She finally looked at Zevran; the elf’s fork had stopped halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t do things impulsively Zev.  Not then.  And he wasn’t much for anything impulsive either.   I gave him a little kiss on the cheek and told him he was sweet and we shouldn’t do anything rash.” She closed her eyes in memory, a line appearing between her black brows as if she were in pain.  He felt his heart clench for her. “Then, Jowan betrayed me, Loghain betrayed Cailan, and Uldred betrayed the whole tower.”

“And you no longer wait so long before acting on your feelings.”  Zevran smiled, remembering her trembling nervousness and excitement that night -her night - with him.  She had shifted closer, her thigh and hip resting against his.  Her shirt, _Alistair’s_ shirt, clung to her as it soaked up the dampness from his body.  For once, the reminder of Alistair didn’t deter him.  It almost made the need to touch her more urgent.  She opened her eyes and met his, a small smile on her lips.

“And then you seduced the king,” Cullen said angrily. He’d put on a loose black shirt over the plain brown leathers that went under the armor. Zevran started to rise as Moira stood up and walked over to Cullen; the blankness of her expression was eerie after her previous animation.  He knew what it meant.  He’d seen it numerous times: when Arl Eamon told Alistair in front of her to reconsider his “dalliance”; when Anora had implied Moira was unique in her civility and intelligence because of her race and ability.  

Moira drew her fist back and Zevran winced at the crack of her fist on Cullen’s jaw.  She must have used her Arcane abilities to hit him that hard.  Cullen fell back on his rear end, hazel eyes wide, a hand going to his jaw.  Zevran leapt to his feet, dropping the tin plate on the stones around the fire, expecting to either split them up or defend Moira.  He wasn’t entirely sure which he wanted at that moment.

Moira stood over the ex-Templar, her slender form vibrating with rage.  “And you would accuse me of the same were we in the Circle, you ass.”

Cullen’s square jaw tightened and he glared up at her.  He was smart enough not to stand, though.  Zevran followed his quick glance at Moira’s closed fist and recognized the ice forming around her fingers, the steam emanating from it in the warmer air.  

“I would not have fallen for your blood magic were you still chained properly in the Tower like all your kind deserves.”  Cullen’s eyes were wide around the edges, his pupils dilated.  Zevran stood the rest of the way.  That was never a good sign in a soldier.

Moira threw back her head and laughed.  “Were I still chained properly, as you say, I’d be dead and you with me.  Maybe you should be grateful for my ‘blood magic.’”  Zevran ran a quick mental inventory of where each of his throwing knives still were;  he felt disadvantaged at his shirtlessness.  It cut out about seven of the concealed knives he could draw quickly.  Moira spun on her heel and went to help herself to the stew. Cullen scrambled to his feet, features twisted in rage.  Zevran reached for the first of his knives as fast as he could as Perrin barked in warning.  Cullen launched himself at her, surprising Zevran with how fast the other man could move. She twisted sinuously as he’d once taught her, twisting in Cullen’s grasp to land on her back.  Her heard her gasp as the breath left her for a moment.

Two blades in hand, Zevran walked quietly up behind Cullen. Moira got her hand free enough to gesture to Zevran to wait. “I suggest you get off me and eat dinner. You’re still injured and you need to rest.” Zevran clenched his jaw as Cullen sat up, still straddling her, knees on either side of her hips, pinning her legs. The assassin flipped his daggers from the throwing grip he’d prepared to the offensive as Cullen’s fists clenched and unclenched at his side.  Moria’s voice was calm, even gentle as she looked up at Cullen.  “What are you going to do, Cullen? Hit me? Kill me? Then what? Go back to the Tower and kill more innocent mages?  I’m no blood mage and you know it.”  Zevran walked around until he was directly behind the former Templar and Perrin circled around to stand near her head, growling softly.  Her only acknowledgment of their preparations was a quick flick of her eyes.  Zevran slowly advanced.

Cullen scrubbed at his face, his voice ragged. “None of your kind are innocents!”  He slammed his fist into his palm.  Zevran almost slit the man’s throat right then as Moira flinched slightly at the sound.  Cullen either didn’t notice, or had at least the presence of mind not to push that flinch.  “You are all born corrupted!”

Moira’s eyes narrowed, and Zevran moved to grab the bigger man to put his blade against his throat.  Moira shook her head slightly at him.  Zevran frowned.  He walked around to see Cullen’s face, hoping to see what she saw that meant mercy for the idiot boy.  “If you truly believe that, then what are you waiting for? Isn’t it your duty to remove my corruption from this world? Send me back to the Fade where my evil belongs!”

Fascinated, Zevran watched the scowl of anger and hatred shift dramatically to sorrow and then to the knotted brow and tight lips of pain.  Cullen covered his face with his hands. “I – I can’t! You – you aren’t like them!”

Moira sighed and glanced at Zevran.  He understood, now.  The boy was conflicted.  Terror governing his actions more than reason.   _That_ sign he recognized.  He’d known too many recruits to the Crows that had had similar crises.  She slid her legs out from under him, and stood up. Putting a finger under his chin, she tilted his face up to look at her, “Yes, I am.”

Cullen’s handsome face twisted in rage and he lunged to his feet, causing Moira to step back or be hit by his head.  Zevran found himself on his feet, throwing knives in his hands before he realized he’d reacted.

“No.  You’re not. You can’t be!”  Cullen staggered backward, stepping over the log, to turn and run into the brush.  His face, before he turned, was white as a sheet, its former reddened rage draining to the pallor of panic.  Zevran caught Moira’s arm as she moved to follow him.

“No, _Querida_.  I think it would be a very bad idea to follow him just now.”  She looked at him, her great blue eyes swimming with unshed tears.  “Come.  Sit by the fire and use your fair body to warm me.  I find standing around dripping wet while shirtless to be quite uncomfortable this time of year.”  He gave her a wink and managed to get her to chuckle at him with a shake of her head.

~*~

They decided not to stop in West Hill. It wasn’t that large of a port city and unlikely to have any ships going to the Tevinter Imperium or the Anderfels. They didn’t yet need supplies that necessitated stopping in a town, yet, anyway.  At least, that was the decision Moira and Zevran came to. Cullen just glowered when he was asked his opinion.  He'd kept his distance since his outburst.  Moira let him have it.

Glancing at the scowling younger man, Zevran shook his head.  “He needs more training.  I do not know how your Chantry trains its soldiers, but there are gaps in his technique that a dragon could stomp through.”

Moira had to laugh at that, genuine mirth bubbling up and out.  “You would know all about dragons stomping.  I swear you stole the final blow on the false Andraste.”

She let the grin widen as he put his hand to his chest in a wounded gesture.  “I did no such thing!  That dragon merely obliged me with falling repeatedly on my sword!”  He sobered and Moira resisted the urge to reach over and run her thumb over his full lips.  He glanced behind them at Cullen who led Bill in some sort of obstinate penance. “I do not think you should train him yet.  He is not ready to work with a mage in battle.”

Moira nodded.  “Much less me.  All right.  Perrin will help, too.  He needs practice in working with mabari.”

“Of course, as long as my canine friend agrees to do as I say.”  Zevran aimed a half smile at the wardog who responded with a panting bark.  

Moira shook her head.  “Suddenly, I feel _so_ much better.”

~*~

They finally reached Highever. Moira left her mage robes on; after a short argument, she had to agree that a mage with a Templar escort would call a lot less attention than two armed-to-the-teeth elves would. Zevran’s deft fingers had helped her fasten the various buckles and ties for the robes;  she tried not to wish he’d let his hands linger on the few sections of her bare skin like Alistair often did.   _He’s not yours to fantasize about_ , she reminded herself.  He been the one to help Cullen into his armor the last few days.  Moira wondered if he’d insisted just for the excuse to protect her from Cullen -- and Cullen from her.

Highever seemed to be far more crowded than it usually was.  The raucous crowds, shouting and chaos reached Moira’s ears long before they caught a glimpse of the city gates.  She almost broke into a run, expecting the city to be under attack, until she was able to discern music threading through the din.  She took deep breaths to calm herself. _I’ve been at war so long, I’ve forgotten what a merriment sounds like_.   A banner strung across the main gate declared that the town was celebrating something called “Remembrance Day.” Moira tried to see around her at all angles as they joined the stream of people entering the town, receiving curious stares and a few frowns. Everyone else was wearing their finest clothes and chattering happily. The two elves, the human and the Mabari were decidedly not in the celebrating spirit and armor hardly qualified as festival gear.  Though, this was Ferelden, Moira thought, as she noticed several other groups armed to the teeth, on the receiving end of the same looks.

“What in the Maker’s name is Remembrance Day?” Cullen asked, sullenly, glaring around at all the booths and wandering minstrels and clumps of dancing people.

Moira glanced at him, sighing inwardly at having to deal with yet more grumpiness. “The town of Highever is remembering the anniversary of the day the Teyrn’s family was killed by the Arl of Amaranthine. They also throw in prayers for those lost at Ostagar. They have a huge party for a week, then on the last day spend all day at the Chantry, fasting.” She looked at Zevran, “I’d like to avoid attracting the Teyrn’s attention. I’ve no desire to partake in their feasts and balls tonight.  I doubt any of us are feeling festive.”

Zevran shrugged, then grinned.  He rubbed the back of his ear and gestured.   “Arl Teagan Guerrin of Redcliffe has already spotted us.” Moira groaned. She could see no way to avoid the man without being rude. He had been watching some of the dancing from a stand of benches off to one side and sitting near the back, so he’d been in an excellent position to spot their arrival. Resigned, Moira approached their old friend, plastering a grin on her face.

Seeing them head for him, Teagan sprang to his feet, an impressive feat in red-steel plate mail. He ignored Moira’s offered hand and embraced her – staff and all. The scent of cloves and wood smoke enveloped her.  Teagan shook Zevran’s hand in greeting, and bowed slightly at Cullen, “Chancellor! It’s wonderful to see you! Are you here for Fergus’ festival?”  

Moira looked him, thoughtfully. Remembering the letter she’d given Oghren, she decided she probably did need to talk to the red-haired Arl in confidence. Someone needed to know what she suspected, and the Arl would tell his brother. “Unfortunately, no, Arl Teagan. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

His brow knit in concern, he looked from Zevran to Moira. “Fergus is hosting me at his estate. And I’m afraid every inn in the city is booked solid. I’m certain the Teryn can provide accommodations for you and your friends?” His eyebrows went up with the question.

“Forgive me, Arl Teagan. You remember Zevran, Alistair’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, I expect?” She caught Zevran’s grin at his sudden appointment as she turned to gesture at Cullen, “Cullen Rutherford, the most recent Grey Warden Recruit.” The Mabari barked, causing Moira to laugh and Teagan to smile, “And you’ve met Perrin.” The Arl reached down to scratch the Mabari’s ears in welcome.

“Congratulations on your appointment, Ser,” Teagan, ever polite, bowed at the assassin. Then, turning to Cullen, he bowed also, “Thank you for your service, Ser.” Moira caught Zevran’s wide grin as he thought through the implications of his sudden appointment. She’d given him the title on impulse, confident Alistair would confirm it when they found him. She was just so tired of having his presence questioned. She just wished she’d thought of it when they were in the Tower. It was also somewhat amusing to appoint a former Crow as the foreign minister. It would certainly send an interesting note to the Orlesian court.

Teagan gestured to his own armed escort of five heavily armed men and women and said, “Chancellor, if you would come with me, I’d be delighted to lead you to the Teryn’s estate.” She could tell he considered holding out his elbow as a gentleman would, but she defied convention at the moment.  What did one do with a mage?  Especially one that might actually outrank him?  The small group began navigating the crowded streets of Highever, Teagan’s men in a tight bubble around Moira’s small group, with Teagan, Moira and Perrin walking abreast and Cullen and Zevran behind them.

It was a long walk. The celebration, however, seemed to be limited to the main thoroughfare near the front of the city. Within a few streets, the crowds had thinned out, only stragglers running and dancing towards the festival. Soon, even they trickled off. Moira glanced back at Zevran who nodded. The streets were awfully empty. Before she looked away, she saw the elf nudge Cullen and gesture with two fingers to his eyes and to the alleys. Cullen nodded and surreptitiously loosened his sword in his scabbard. Moira nudged Teagan who looked down at her. She moved her finger in a circle, keeping her hand low so as not to draw attention to the gesture. The arl’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline, but he nodded and gave the same gesture to his own men-at-arms. Zevran hissed at her, “We just picked up some company for the evening, my Warden. Shall we ask them to dance?” She glanced backward and held up her hand. She couldn’t snap her fingers while wearing her gloves, but she tapped her leg. She heard the Mabari growl softly. “Amateurs,” Zevran snarled.

On the heels of his statement, dozens of ragged-looking bandits poured out of the alleys and buildings. One of them shouted, “The Chancellor dies here!” at the same time Teagan shouted, “Protect the Chancellor!” Moira rolled her eyes. Gallant idiot. If anyone needed protecting here it wasn’t she. Teagan wasn’t quite as battle hardened as she, and wasn’t a mage with far too much combat experience.

“See? Amateurs!” Zevran shouted.

Moira grinned tightly and unslung her staff. “They stole your line, too.”

“Like I said,” Zevran launched himself at the first wave of attackers, Cullen and the Mabari at his heels. Cullen still felt odd in what she thought of as Alistair’s place in her mind, but the Mabari and Zevran were welcome presences she was used to.  At least she didn’t have to expend mana to wear her armor.  She could better monitor the damage they took.

She yanked Teagan to stand next to her, “Makes their job easier and bad guys’ harder if we’re together for them to protect.” She gasped then as Cullen took a vicious swipe on his sword arm and Zevran didn’t manage to duck a mace to his head. She quickly gathered her focus and her will and flung healing energy at them. A couple of would-be assassins managed to break through the line her friends and Teagan’s guards made and rushed at them. The Arl drew his weapon to defend her. She bit back a snarl and flung ice at one of the attackers, careful of Teagan and his men.

Moira cursed the narrow streets that wouldn’t let her use her stronger magic without harming everyone. Especially since her senses were too filled with Cullen, Zevran and Perrin to add him to the mix so she could keep him alive as well. She used her staff as an actual staff rather than a focal point, somehow not getting in Teagan’s way nor he hers. She felt Perrin take a warhammer in the ribs, and almost missed parrying her attacker’s next blow as the pain shot through her own ribcage. She decapitated her opponent and flung a healing spell in the Mabari’s direction. As suddenly as the attack occurred, it was over. Moira stood, panting as adrenaline ebbed and her companions’ presences left her consciousness. Zevran was cleaning his blades on the clothing of the men he’d killed and Cullen shrugged and did the same. The Mabari ran back over to Moira and flopped down, tongue lolling and stub of a tail wagging. Teagan was panting as well. There were four guards left of Teagan’s entourage. They carefully picked up their fallen comrade.

“What was that all about?” The arl asked.

“I think that should wait until we’re at the Teryn's Estates,” Moira said. She called to Zevran, “Anything interesting?”

“They were not Crows, if that’s what you’re asking. Crows are only this clumsy on purpose,” he grinned at her. “However, this is interesting.” He brought her a rolled-up sheet of parchment. She unfurled it and read, “The Chancellor is beginning to suspect. Take care of her. –A.”

“Curiouser and curiouser. The faster we get to the Teryn’s estates the better. How far are we Teagan?” She asked, resigning herself to the probability of participating in this Festival.  They’d likely be attacked at any inn they tried to get rooms in, risking innocent bystanders’ lives.

“A mile, maybe less,” he replied.

“We leave your men here, they’re safer without us, and we run,” she waited for the Arl to tell his men their orders and then the five of them set out at a run to the Teryn’s estates.


	8. A Long Lonely Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Many Thanks to Ballades and Luna for Beta’ing. All mistakes are mine alone.)
> 
> My apologies for such a long time between updates. Real Life got away from me. I’d like to promise it’s all settled now, but we all know that would be a fib.

Fergus Cousland had been startled to find the Chancellor of Ferelden on his doorstep two hours after sunset on the first day of the Remembrance Day festivals. The Teryn recovered quickly, his handsome but heavy-featured face breaking into a grin at his visitors. The Cousland family had a history of being friendly to elves and Moira knew she and Zevran wouldn’t be looked at askance unlike in some of Bannorn holdings.

Teagan had introduced them, blood spattered and out of breath as they all were from the mile-long sprint through the city. “Teryn Cousland, may I present Chancellor and Warden Commander Moira Surana,” Moira bowed, slightly. “Zevran Aranai, Ferelden’s Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Cullen of Lake Calenhad, Grey Warden recruit.” Perrin barked, not to be forgotten, “Oh, and last but not least, Lady Surana’s Mabari, Perrin,” Teagan finished, laughing.

Fergus laughed, and grasped Moira’s arm in greeting as she grasped his. “Greetings, Chancellor. My house is yours. Are you here for Remembrance Day?”

“No, Teryn Fergus, I am not, sadly.” Moira shook her head, “If you have somewhere private we might meet, I am afraid I have unpleasant news.” Fergus looked at Moira and her companions. In all her studies, she’d read of the Couslands and their unfailing kindness and loyalty to the throne of Ferelden and the Thierin bloodline with only a couple of notable exceptions. Their judge of character was usually infallible, as well; one of only miscalculations had been Rendon Howe. But then, even Loghain Mac Tir had fallen victim to that worm tongued serpent.

Fergus had ushered them into his study and shut the door, “What can I do for you, Chancellor?”

Moira stood, somehow, after all this time, still slightly uncomfortable in a room full of humans and men she outranked, even if they were friendly. It made her feel like she was fresh out of the Tower again. “The King is away from the country at the moment. He was called away during the winter to Weisshaupt.”

Teagan cleared his throat, “But why? I thought you were the Warden Commander?”

“I do not know. I can only speculate on their reasons. We did communicate with them, after the Battle of Denerim, to ask for reinforcements and to tell them the fates of the other Ferelden Grey Wardens. We sent the same letters to Orlais and Tevinter and the Free Marches. Everyone else replied, saying they would send reinforcements eventually, but they were glad to know Alistair and I had everything well in hand. Weisshaupt only sent a letter back demanding the Warden Commander Alistair Thierin attend them.” She looked up at the two men, she could hear Zevran’s leather armor creak as he crossed his arms behind her – he’d come to the same conclusion she had, after all. “I’ve had no letters from him since last one, which was a tersely worded ‘I’m here.’ He may be a Grey Warden, but he is the King of Ferelden first.

“The King of the Anders is weak. The Grey Wardens rule there. If, in fact, they’ve taken the King of Ferelden prisoner….”

Fergus growled, Teagan said, his voice angry, “Why would they declare war on Ferelden?”

“Why did Orlais invade? Their cattle stock was low? They need more sheep? We’re dreadfully weak after a Blight and a Civil War and think they can get away with it? Alistair wouldn’t break and hand them the keys to his kingdom so they could have control of a second country in Thedas?” Moira shrugged her shoulders in her armor. _He wouldn’t tell them why we both survived?_ She added silently.

Zevran cleared his throat and stepped forward, “It could also be only one part of a larger plan we cannot yet see.” Fergus and Teagan both looked rather alarmed at that thought.

“There is also trouble still in the Tower. Either blood mages reinfiltrated, or we missed a few during the Cleansing. There is also a large underground lyrium trade we’ve come across. I do not yet know if these are related to Alistair’s disappearance. Oghren has had some trouble with bandits, Teagan. They were trying to shake him down for lyrium, assuming that because he’s a dwarf and near the Tower, he’d have a large supply. I told him to go to Redcliffe if things got too hot.” Moira had begun to pace while she spoke. Once again, she felt as much out of her element as she had at Lothering, taking command, wondering if anyone would listen to a woman, a mage, an elf. And this time, she didn’t have her fellow Grey Warden, her love, watching her back. “Lyrium smuggling is always going on, but this is the worst I’ve seen it since the Blight.”

Teagan nodded at her, “I’ll stop at Lake Calenhad on the way back home and check on him.”

Relief washed over her, a large weight she’d been carrying fell from her shoulders. She really had been worried about Oghren and his family. “Thank you, Teagan.”

Fergus cleared his throat, “What can Highever do, Chancellor?”

“Well, for starters, I need a fast ship to the Anderfels,” she told him.

“Tough to do this time of year with the spring storms, but I should be able to find one within the week,” he assured her. She wanted to snarl at the delay. A week!

“There’s nothing to be done about the rest of it at the moment, I don’t think. I do ask that you both watch for anything unusual in your respective provinces. The Tower will have to fend for itself for now. I cannot help Irving and Greagoir until I’ve gotten Alistair back. The king is the priority,” Moira told them.

Fergus excused himself, “I must see to your accommodations, Chancellor. And get started on that ship.”

“At this hour?” Teagan asked, surprised.

“Truth be told, my friend, the captains that are in dock are probably awake and carousing at this hour,” Fergus laughed. “Which is where we should be, if the news wasn’t so dire.” The Teryn excused himself.

“Cullen, please help the Teryn,” Moira ordered quietly. With a scowl, knowing he was being gotten rid of, Cullen followed Fergus.

“You need to watch your back, my friend. If it was known you were friends of the King and his Chancellor, things might not be safe for you, either,” Zevran said once Cullen had closed the door.

“Are you really the Minister of Foreign Affairs?” Teagan asked Zevran, grinning.

The Antivan shrugged, “If it is prudent to give me such a title, I’m sure I’ll answer to whatever it is our dear Warden calls me.”

Moira rolled her eyes at both of them, “How is Redcliffe, Teagan?”

“Quiet, since Arl Eamon took his wife to Denerim,” he chuckled at Moira’s shudder. “Ah, I see Isolde is still winning friends and influencing people.”

“She keeps trying to be the ‘society leader’ of Denerim. She picks out one more dress for me…,” she said, chuckling.

“The fearsome Grey Warden mage conquered by silk and crinoline? That would be a sight to see!” Teagan chuckled. “I imagine you looked lovely, however.”

“Like something out of a bard’s tale,” Zevran said. The elf had taken up a position near the fireplace where he could watch both the large window and the door.

“The high heels were worse,” Moira made a face. “If it weren’t for Alistair and Zev, I’d have fallen on my ass.”

Teagan raised an eyebrow at Zevran who grinned, “She leaned on one or the other of us all evening. At least until she could take the heels off and hide them.”

Moira shook her head sadly, “You are a cruel, cruel man, Zev. Telling my secrets like this.”

“I have far more wild horses could not drag from me, my Warden,” he bowed with an entertainer’s flourish.

Teagan laughed, “I think I will go back to the festivities. My Lady? Ser Aranai?” They returned his mock formality, laughing.

When the Arl had left, Moira turned to Zevran. “I have a favor to ask you and you’re not going to like it.”

“When have I ever not liked doing something for you, my fair Warden?” Zevran asked.

Moira sighed, “Find Cullen and get cleaned up. Then take him down to that festival and find someone to take the edge off. Someone experienced enough to deal with him should he get violent.”

Zevran frowned, “You realize he’ll try to find someone that looks like you.”

“Steer him away from that. He needs to stop thinking about me like that, especially if I’m to be his commanding officer. Not to mention, I already belong to someone.”

 _And don’t I know it_ , thought Zevran. Aloud, he said, “You’re right, I don’t like this. This estate is hardly secure. That was proven before Ostagar.”

Moira nodded, “I know, Zev. I’ll have Perrin with me, though. But I think getting him to relax is a priority here. We’re going to be stuck on a ship with him for a month, at least. That’s awfully close quarters for him to continue thinking like he is.”

Zevran shook his head, “A woman of loose morals isn’t going to cure him, you know. He is confused on whether you’re his savior or his damnation, not just a woman.”

“We take the mystery of sex out of the equation and maybe he’ll come down on the right side of that fence, Zev. But being on a ship with him is not going to be comfortable in his current state,” Moira pointed out.

Alarm bells were still ringing in Zevran’s head for Moira’s plan, but he had to admit her logic was sound. He looked at the woman to whom he’d pledged his life and his freedom one strange day what seemed a long time ago. She hadn’t yet learned to wear armor, so she’d been in one of those scanty mage robes that still seemed to protect the wearer no matter how few strips of cloth were placed on the body. Her shorter black hair had been tied up in the back in a tail, but strands still fell to frame her face. Her storm-cloud blue eyes had been wide with anger, her small, full lips were tightened in a narrow, furious line. She’d had the beautiful Lelianna standing behind her, and the wonderful Wynne. But most importantly, looming over her and forever at her back, was Alistair. He’d been wearing the armor she now wore and glaring down at Zevran. Zevran had been utterly impressed by the imposing contrast of the sunlight and moonlight in the Grey Wardens; it would have taken a less poetic soul than his to not be stuck by it. The elf wondered, not for the first time, if he’d known how thoroughly she’d confuse him and wrap him around her little finger, if he’d not just begged for her to finish him off instead of begging for his life. And knowing, would he really have chosen differently? His voluntary service to her was far less onerous than his previous masters, and she genuinely cared for him, just not in the way he would prefer.

“If this is what you wish, I know of a few places that can accommodate our former Templar,” Zevran said. He wasn’t really able to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Moira closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, “Then what do you think we should do about it, Zevran?”

“Pressuring him to ‘relax,’ as you so poetically put it, my Warden, is a bad idea,” Zevran said, crossing to her. He put his hands on her armored shoulders, “It would just make him uncomfortable. And possibly much angrier with you.”

Moira dropped her hand and looked up at her friend, “All right, I’ll trust you on this. I already trust you with my life, after all.”

She looked so tired, suddenly, that Zevran gave into the urge to hug her and say, “It will all work out, my dear Warden.”


	9. Chapter 9

Moira stayed hidden in the Teryn’s estates. She had no desire to cause more of Teagan’s men, or Fergus’, to lose their lives because of her. She also had no desire to join in the apparently raucous celebration whose cacophony seemed to reach even the Cousland estates. She’d taken to wandering the halls, restlessly, unable to sit still and wait for a ship. She’d have read, her sole comfort when she was stressed, but the Teryn hadn’t yet replaced all the books that had fallen victim the fire that ravaged the estate after Howe's treachery. Another reason for Howe to burn in the Black City, she supposed. 

She saw no real reason to wear dresses around the estates, but every time she turned around, her pants were missing for one reason or another and a dress was in their place. Today, she’d found a wide-necked navy blue gown laid out for her with silver embroidery climbing the sleeves and sprawling around the hem and up the front of the dress to the arrow-waisted bodice. The bodice had enough boning in it a corset was unnecessary, thankfully, but the wide, low-cut front made her feel like she was on display and that drowning in her own chest might be a danger. Fortunately, at least the shoes were silver slippers, not heels. She doubted Fergus was responsible for this torture, but she had every intention of finding out who had decided to dress her up like some sort of doll. At least no one had come to do her hair; it was free to hang down her back.

As she wandered down one of the main halls, she found a portrait gallery. Silently, she stared at the progenitors of one of the oldest families in Ferelden. There was the first painting, the Cousland who’d stood up to Alistair’s ancestor when he united Ferelden. She wandered further down the hall, examining a family that had existed long before the country she’d been born in was formed at the point of a sword. Fergus caught up to her, at the end of the hall and the last two portraits. “My family,” he said, quietly, over her shoulder. 

“I know.” Bryce Cousland stood proudly in the rear, looking over his family, his son at his side. Fergus’s dead wife sat next to her dead mother-in-law; a small boy, Fergus’ son, if she remembered correctly, sitting cross-legged at their feet. A daughter, not yet sixteen, stood with her long auburn hair unbound at her mother’s side. The next portrait was of this girl, a little older, a little more experienced, standing facing a young man with flame red hair, his face unlined and smiling. 

“That was my sister. She died in Howe’s attack. Emma. She and Ser Gilmore died in the main hall, trying to give my mother and father time to escape. They’d been in love. It irritated father no end, since he was a commoner, but mother was happy with the idea. All she wanted was grandchildren.” Fergus let out all the information in a rush, as if he’d been saving this story for someone to tell it to.

“I killed him. Or rather, we killed him. Alistair, Zevran, Wynne and I. I don’t know which of us landed the killing blow, but he died cursing and gasping. Vitriolic to the end. He was a snake. And his family is no more, Fergus. When Alistair found out what he’d done, he wanted to dig him up and kill him all over again,” Moira said quietly.

Fergus let out a loud breath, “I’m glad to hear that. Wish I could have been the one to kill him, however.” 

Thinking of Uldred and Loghain, Moira shook her head, “Revenge is never the answer you think it is. “

Fergus shrugged, “Still would have made me feel good. My mother and sister, my wife, Howe’s men made them suffer. And they murdered my son.” The pain in his voice was palpable. 

“I know.” She decided not to tell him how much worse it would have been. _The Blight unchecked, the women taken below ground._ “But the hangover from revenge is a bitch.”

He smiled sadly, “I did find you for a reason. I think I’ve found a ship. _The Siren’s Call._ I’ll tell you about it on the way to dinner.”

Moira felt the blush start at her feet and hit the top of her head in 2.3 heatbeats. She looked away and cleared her throat. “Captain by the name of Isabella?”

Fergus laughed and slapped Moira on the back, heartily. “Oh, ho! You’re acquainted with the good captain, I see! You saucy minx!”

“Uh, she taught me a few things a while back.” _Taught Alistair a few things, too,_ she thought to herself. If it were possible, she felt the blush deepen.

Fergus roared with laughter, “She said she’d leaving in two days, with or without you.”

“I suppose I should go let her know we’ll be joining her then,” Moira replied, her voice resigned. Meeting Isabella again was going to be uncomfortable, to say the least. 

She and Fergus began walking down the hall together, Fergus laughed. “When she heard it was a Grey Warden from Ferelden she’d be transporting, she left her ship to come meet you. I didn’t tell her which of you it was, though.” He laughed as she blushed again. 

The two of them entered the dining room where Zevran, Cullen and Teagan stood at Moira’s entry. She’d been unable to find any of them today, not that she’d looked very hard. But Zevran at least, had always been there, it was puzzling that he’d been avoiding her. There was a fourth person there, Moira turned red for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes upon seeing Isabella rise at her entrance, too. The roguish pirate captain was standing next to Zevran and both of their eyes started at her head and traveled down then back up, wearing identical possessive grins. Cullen merely looked thunderstuck as if he had nothing left to think with and Teagan just grinned, widely. Moira froze in embarrassment, wondering if she could yank the tablecloth off the table and cover herself with it.

Isabella sauntered over and Fergus went to take his place at the head of the table, leaving her alone with the pirate captain. The auburn haired woman grinned at Moira’s expression, “It’s so good to see you again, my dear.” And before Moira could move, the captain’s hands stuck out and cupped her chin. Moira found herself being thoroughly kissed hello. In spite of herself, she kissed back, her body responding, her heart beginning to pound. The woman was just that good of a kisser. However, when Isabella’s tongue touched her lips, Moira jerked away. “Pity,” Isabella said, running a finger across Moira’s décolletage, causing her to shiver and goosebumps to break out. Grinning, she turned and put her arm around the smaller elven woman and led her to the empty spot at Fergus’ right hand, directly across from Teagan and next to Zevran. Isabella sat at the foot of the table. 

She glared at Zevran out of the corner of her eye; he grinned impishly but under the table took her hand and squeezed it. Cullen glared at her from his place next to Teagan as if she was the one who’d done something wrong. Teagan was carefully spreading butter on a roll and not looking at her. Fergus was grinning as if he’d just seen the funniest thing ever. She wondered if Isabella would have done the same thing if Alistair were here and decided they’d have both probably gotten the same greeting. The pirate captain slouched in her chair, a tankard of ale in her hand. “I come ashore to find a passenger or a party and end up with both! I love my life! Thank you for your hospitality, Teryn Fergus.” 

Fergus laughed, “I had no idea you knew the Chancellor that well, Isabella. I’d have introduced you sooner!”

Moira resisted the urge to unleash a blizzard on the room and escape. Ale. Ale would help. Flashes of how she’d learned the finer arts of Dueling so she could show Zevran and Lelianna intruded as she swallowed her ale, quickly. It had been a one-time thing, and she was never supposed to run into Isabella again. _Isabella’s hand ran up Moira’s inner thigh while Alistair kissed Moira, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, entwining with hers_. She met Isabella’s gaze and the pirate’s sun-and-wind-weathered eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. _Oh, Maker give me strength to get through this meal!_ She. Would. Not. Run. She clutched Zevran’s hand harder. The assassin came to her rescue, “So, Isabella, what brings you to Highever?”

“I’d heard about this week-long party the Teryn was throwing. You know me, Zev, I can’t turn away the chance to carouse a little!” Isabella took a drink of her ale. “I just got lucky two old friends happened to be in town looking for a ride.” Moira and Teagan both choked on their ale, Zevran and Fergus both laughed loudly. Cullen stared at his plate, studiously stirring his soup.

Isabella finally noticed the ex-Templar, “Introduce me, Zev, Moira?” 

Zevran grinned; Moira hadn’t yet recovered her voice. “That is Master Cullen of Lake Calenhad, Grey Warden recruit.” Moira didn’t know where Cullen had gotten the clothes, but the blue shirt and light grey vest went well with his dark blond curls. It seemed to make his shoulders broader, too. 

“Let me guess, another ex-Templar?” Isabella was grinning like the pigeon that ate the canary.

Zevran chuckled, “That he was, yes. Late of the Circle Tower.”

Isabella’s smile became absolutely predatory. Cullen flushed, starting at the base of his neck, “I see you haven’t taught this one anything yet, Sweetness,” she said to Moira. “Your other one came to me mostly trained.” Fergus and Zevran roared with laughter. 

Moira grinned, in spite of herself. “Well, I’ve decided to limit myself to just the one ex-Templar, Isabella. It’s so tiring breaking in new ones.” Moira winked at Cullen, the more embarrassed he acted, the worse Isabella would get. The other three men laughed at that verbal riposte.

“Ah, but once they are trained, they never forget, do they.” Isabella grinned at Moira.

 _Isabella’s tongue in her mouth, Alistair’s hands roaming over her body, one hand settling between her legs, teasingly light…_ Moira shivered slightly but grinned back, “They do tend to stay trained if trained properly, that is true.” Isabella laughed, raising her tankard in acknowledgement of Moira’s point. 

“To Remembrance Day,” Isabella called out, raising her tankard in a toast.

The rest of the meal passed companionably, once Moira’s composure returned. She kept catching the occasional speculative gaze from Fergus and Teagan, however, and Cullen couldn’t look at her without glaring. Under the table, Zevran kept his hand on her knee. Moira wasn’t sure if he was trying to be comforting or possessive.

~*~

Packing to leave, Moira discovered that somehow, her pants and vests had gone missing entirely. From the grin on her elven friend’s face as he watched her ransack her room for them, she began to suspect he was the one who’d hidden them. The only article of normal clothing she could find was the pair of Alistair’s shirts she’d brought for sleeping in and wearing under the vests to keep at least a part of him close. Wearing just the shirt was obviously not suitable, especially since Cullen had taken to glaring at her at every opportunity again. A blood-red dress with gold flowers and vines climbing all over the bodice and plunging neckline had been the only thing in her room to wear this morning unless she wanted to put on her armor. Which was all the way in the armory, where the estate’s smiths had been repairing all the little scratches and large dents from their travels. She glared at Zevran where he leaned against the doorway.

“What did you do with my clothes?” She stood in front of him, her tiny hands on her hips.

He hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned, “You’re wearing them, my dear Warden.”

“You stole my pants!” She flung her hands up in the air and turned to continue looking for her clothes. The Mabari looked up from his nap in front of the fire at his mistress’s outburst, realized there wasn’t a problem and flopped his head back down and snorted.

Zevran crossed the room to pick up the dresses she’d flung on the floor in her haste to find what she called her “real clothes.” Navy blue, pale blue, dark green, and his favorite, black, satin, silk, velvet and heavy taffeta dresses piled in his arms and he gently laid them on a chair. Moira paused in her rampage to watch him for a moment. “You… bought those for me?” Instantly, she regretted her tantrum. Alistair had always bought her dresses, too. She’d learned to resign herself to wearing them around Denerim. Zevran had never indicated he actually cared what she wore. The dresses were very similar to the ones she’d left behind in Denerim, but whether that was because both men had similar taste, or were just buying her what she’d wear, she never considered, since Zevran had never bought her a dress before.

“Would it bother you if I said yes?” Zevran asked, not looking at her.

She crossed to him and touched his arm to get him to look at her. He grinned at her, but the mirth didn’t quite make it to his eyes. She hugged him in apology. Leaning back, her hands still on his shoulders, she looked at him, “Of course not. I’m sorry I acted like an ungrateful brat. I will wear them. Gladly,” she grinned. “Besides, you should have seen what I did to the first few dresses Alistair brought me.”

Zevran laughed, “I was there. I remember you cleaned out Perrin’s kennel in one.” Moira grinned, too, but more in the memory of making up after that particular fight, which Alistair had won. She’d worn her dresses after that without complaint.

“I will wear them, and I will be happy you gave them to me,” she said, picking one up and beginning to fold it neatly. She supposed they could always have Isabella drop off the trunk in Denerim when she landed there next.

Zevran looked at her steadily, “What are you going to tell Alistair about where you got them?”

Moira’s heart jumped into her throat at his look, “The truth? If he’d married me, then perhaps he could object to whoever buys me dresses, but he can’t.” She was still standing close enough to Zevran to feel his breath on her pointed ear. Had he moved closer? Goosebumps broke out all over her body. She closed her eyes as she felt his hand on her nearly bare shoulder, sending electric shocks down her spine. Her fingers tightened on the dress as his other hand slid around her satin-clad waist. She turned her head toward him, “Zevran, I –,” were the only words she got out before his mouth captured hers. He ran his hand up her neck to cup her face, holding her still. Moira’s head spun, her knees felt weak forcing her to lean further into him as the only solid thing left. She felt his tongue against her lips and then he was inside her mouth, skillfully teasing and stroking until she moaned, and dropped the dress she’d been holding. The hand on her waist slid upward and dipped into her bodice. She returned his kiss hungrily as his hand cupped her breast and his fingertips teased her nipple, pulling it out of the dress. His warm hand and the cold air of the room on her skin made her nipple tighten and the rest of her ache for him.

Abruptly, Zevran pulled back first, hazel eyes half shut as he looked at her. Wordlessly, he let her go and spun on his heel and left. Moira grabbed the back of the chair the dresses were draped on, her legs none too steady. Her hands shaking, she pulled her dress back up to cover herself. She’d made herself forget, when she chose Alistair, what kissing that man was like. He made her feel just as weak and lost as Alistair did, but with the added edge of danger instead of humor. She thought he was over her. She had thought he’d accepted her choice a long time ago. Why was he doing this now? 

She jumped at the sound of a throat being cleared in the doorway. Guiltily, she glanced up to see Arl Teagan standing there. “Is this a bad time?” he asked, smiling.

Hoping her pounding heart wasn’t visible through her skin, Moira took a deep breath to clear her head before replying, “Not at all, is there something I can do for you, Teagan?”

Teagan took a few steps into her room and she was suddenly wondering if it was prudent to allow him in. She’d never worried about Zevran before, after all, and look where that had gotten her. “I wanted to ask if you needed my help in going to Weisshaupt.”

Moira blinked, “No, thank you. I need you to stay here. I was serious about the problems we found.”

The young Arl nodded. “All right, leaving me out of the fun again, I see,” he replied, laughing.

Moira laughed, “Yes, I’m depriving you of sleeping on the hard ground, midnight watches, bandit and darkspawn ambushes. And on the way back, Alistair’s cooking!” 

“See? I never get to have any fun,” he grinned at her. “But, seriously, Moira, if you need anything, please let me know.”

“Of course, Teagan, I will. And I will be visiting Redcliffe again when all this is over. Especially if Oghren is there.”

“Good, the people miss their champion.” He crossed the room and gave her a quick hug. “Have a safe journey, Moira. And bring back our King.”

As he left, she replied, “I swear it.”


	10. Chapter 10

She was a little more careful packing the dresses this time. Servants came to take the small trunk down to the docks and she picked up her pack with the staff strapped to it, her mage robes still packed tightly inside. With one last glance around her room to make sure nothing had been forgotten, she belted her dagger to her hip and with her pack on her back, Spellweaver in one hand and her skirt gathered up in the other, showing the gold slippers Zevran had gotten to match the dress, she left to make a trip to the armory to pick up her repaired armor, her Mabari trotting after her.

When she finally arrived at the ship, Perrin at her heel, she saw that both Zevran and Cullen were on the deck, waiting for her. Both were wearing their full armor. Of course, Zevran all but slept in his armor, but that was professional paranoia. Before she could greet them, Isabella was suddenly in front of her, swooping in for another kiss. Moira stepped backward and held her hand up, dropping her skirt, “You and I need to talk. Now.” 

“All right, Sweetness, if you insist,” the roguish captain followed Moira below deck, an irritated quirk of her eyebrow the only indication she was upset at being ordered around on her own ship. Moira felt Zevran’s eyes on her as she shut the door behind them. The silence of the passageway was almost overwhelming. No ship was ever truly silent, the water slapping the hull, the creak of the masts, the flap of the sails, the calls of the crew and seabirds, weren’t gone, just very muted; but still it was a welcome silence after the organized chaos on deck. Isabella, ever aggressive, pushed Moira up against the wall, her hands on either side of Moira’s head and leaned in close. “I’m going to forgive you giving me orders on my ship, Sweetness, but it had better be the last time,” the pirate captain purred.

Startled, Moira ducked under Isabella’s arms. Nothing non-sexual ever came from that pose when men did that, she knew, and she doubted Isabella meant anything different. Isabella shifted until she was leaning a shoulder against the wall, her arms crossed. “I.. . we can’t do that anymore,” Moira said, hating how unsure she sounded. 

Isabella’s eyebrows rose, “You mean to tell me your King has you on such a short leash?”

“Well, yes,” Moira replied, taking the easy answer. However Alistair might feel about Isabella’s advances, Zevran had been angry and trying very hard not to show it since Isabella had kissed her the night before. She was partially certain that was the reason for that kiss this morning.

“Oh, ho! The ex-Crow has you confused!” Isabella turned so both shoulders were leaning against the wall and laughed helplessly.

Moira cursed under her breath, she thought she’d mastered that poker face, dammit! The all-too-perceptive pirate captain had guessed right so there was no need to lie, “Yes, all right? Apparently, he was willing to put up with Alistair, but the minute you kissed me, he changed. And I don’t want to push it.”

Suddenly, Isabella was no longer the seductress. Her demeanor had changed to that of a friend. Moira doubted she’d ever feel as close to her as to Lelianna or Morrigan, or even Wynne, but she really did need another woman’s perspective. “You’ve got problems, Sweetness. Your other ex-Templar fancies you, too.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s even more of a problem. I’m supposed to be his commanding officer.” Moira said, leaning on the opposite wall.

“And I undermined your authority with him,” Isabella sighed. “I know a little something about that, I suppose. I truly am sorry I put you in that position, Sweetness, I’ve been there myself,” she grinned, suddenly. “There’s a reason I run about so much on shore leave. All these half naked men and women playing with ropes and I can’t touch a one of them without losing authority.” 

Moira grinned, “I can see where that would get frustrating.” Moira cleared her throat, “If we’re going to be just friends, Isabella, you can’t keep calling me ‘Sweetness.’”

The pirate captain winked, “Yes, I can. But I’ll keep it to a minimum. Now, I do have a question for you, Sweetness. I assume Zevran is off limits?”

“Zevran can make his own arrangements,” Moira said, though a stab of jealousy reared its ugly head before she could slay it in utero. 

“Your eyes give the lie again, Sweetness. You really need to work on your bluffing,” Isabella chuckled.

“Bugger. I slew an Archdemon, you think I could master a few facial expressions,” she looked up at Isabella again, “No matter what I feel, I meant what I said.”

“Understood. I shall, however, merely content myself with your other Templar.” Isabella grinned, “He looks like he could use some . . . exercise.”

Moira laughed, “He’s not mine, you know.”

“He’s your soldier, and he wants to be yours in more ways than one. That makes him your man, Sweetness, whether in the professional sense or the romantic one, makes no difference,” Isabella shrugged. “Now, I’ve dawdled about down here long enough. I need to see to my crew. I’ll send your men down. Will your Mabari be all right on the ship?”

“He’s never sailed before, but I don’t think he’ll be trouble.” 

Isabella didn’t look confident but said, “All right, but if he makes a mess, you clean it up. Your cabin is down the hall on the left.” With that, Isabella flung open the hatch and started shouting orders. Moira glanced through the door and saw Zevran and Cullen both positioned to watch the doorway. Perrin scrambled to his feet and ran to her. Ignoring both men, Moira turned and went to her cabin.

It was spacious, as cabins on ships go. The bed was big enough for two people, and not a cot, at least. Her chest was already there. There was a small table off to the left with a lantern on it and a portal over the side of the bed. She sat her pack down next to the chest and laid Spellweaver across the top of it. Her Mabari trotted in and found the one rug on the floor and threw himself on top of it with a huff. “You are possibly the laziest wardog in Ferelden, you know that, right?” she told her four-legged friend, her hands on her hips. 

“How are we all going to fit in this cabin, my Warden?” Zevran drawled from the doorway. 

Moira jumped, putting her hand to her heart. How did that man manage to move so sodding silently? She turned and asked, as soon as her heart resumed its regular beat, “What do you mean?” He took a step forward.

“The Siren’s Call has two cabins. One, obviously, is the captain’s. Are Cullen and I to sleep with the crew?” 

Moira’s eyebrows went up, “Do you want to?” He took another step forward.

“I have no intention of sleeping in the hold with the crew when my fair Warden sleeps here alone with no one to watch her back.” Maker, he was so close! In the close cabin, she could smell his drakeskin leather armor and the oil he used to clean it. She could smell the soap on his skin he’d used to bathe that morning. He reached behind him to close the door.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Trying to have a private conversation on a boat with thin walls, my Warden,” Zevran said, leaning against the door. 

“I realize taking this cabin leaves you with nowhere to sleep, Zev, but I’m not about to bunk with Isabella. I trust you to keep your hands to yourself more than her,” Moira told him, her hands back on her hips.

“Was that an invitation to sleep in your cabin, my Warden?” Zevran asked archly. The expression on his face brought back the events of that morning in skin-tingling detail. She took a deep breath and saw his eyes drop to watch her chest. 

Moira snorted, “If it’s a choice between Cullen or Isabella and you? I choose you. So yes.”

~*~

Moira stayed in her cabin for most the day, keeping herself and Perrin out of the way of the crew working hard to get cargo loaded. She shooed Zevran out, after stealing his pack. He knew she was looking for her clothes. She wouldn’t find them; he’d left them in Highever. Moira would be very angry when she found out what he’d done and he relished the thought. That his Warden angry enough to yell at him, but not enough to tell him to get lost entirely was one of the fine lines he walked in their relationship. He envied the making up, though. Of that, he hadn’t had the privilege. He doubted he ever would, but he was no longer terribly upset at the prospect. Her friendship had become the thing he cherished above all.

This was why he stood up on deck, out of the way of the crew, and glared out at the horizon, the chill wind of the late spring morning having its way with his hair. Why, by Andraste’s flaming sword, had he kissed her? It jeopardized everything he currently held dear. Zevran wasn’t much for regrets, and he really didn’t regret kissing his Warden, especially when she’d kissed him back so thoroughly he’d felt his heart speed up and his blood flow to places other than his head. The feel of her breast in the palm of his hand just added to the ache he was still feeling for her. He just hoped he hadn’t ruined anything between them. Isabella and her behavior at dinner the night before had made him see red for the first time in a long time. Zevran would tolerate Alistair out of friendship and the fact that Moira and he loved each other completely. But Isabella? No. He’d sooner trust Cullen. There was no respect or love in Isabella for his Warden. He clenched his fingers around the rail along the side of the ship.

_The day before leaving for Weisshaupt, Alistair called the assassin into his study. It was snowing again, Zevran was getting tired of snow, but the large fireplace was lit and roaring merrily. Alistair had been seated in one of the large brown leather chairs that were placed in strategic positions around the room. All of them had at least a peripheral view of both the door and the large window at the rear of the room. The king had been sitting facing the fire place, staring into the flames when Zevran walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Alistair stood, running his fingers through his short reddish-blonde hair until it stood up at the front again. It was a nervous habit, Zevran knew. The king was wearing a simple grey wool tunic and dark blue pants tucked into tall black boots. He made a strikingly heroic picture, looking like someone that had stepped out of one of Leliana’s tales._

_The walls were lined with bookshelves alternating with tapestries and paintings, some depicting Maric’s fight against Orlais, others rather fanciful renditions of the two Wardens’ adventures. Alistair had had them commissioned to show Moira more prominently than himself, but the weavers and painters hadn’t captured the Warden’s beauty even remotely. Zevran found his attention caught by the most recent addition, a portrait of their company at camp during a rest. Moira was seated in the foreground, her attention on the fire. She was wearing the low-cut golden mage robes and her staff and Spellweaver at her feet next to Perrin. For some reason, Alistair had told the painters to put both he and Zevran at an equal distance from Moira as if to form a tripod and as if both were watching over her. Wynne and their other companions were arrayed behind them. Every detail was exquisitely rendered, down to the scales in Zevran’s drakescale armor, Alistair’s golden king’s armor and the jet black lashes on Moira’s brilliant blue eyes._

_Alistair noticed the direction of his gaze, “It just arrived today. I found the best painter in all of Ferelden and somehow, even after meeting her, he still didn’t capture her.”_

_Zevran was inclined to agree with him, but said instead, “Perhaps that’s because you see with the eyes of love, Your Majesty.”_

_Alistair frowned at him, “And you don’t? And what have I told you about that ‘your majesty’ garbage?”_

_Zevran turned to look at the king fully for the first time since entering the room, “I will not discuss her without her being here.”_

_Alistair crossed his arms over his chest. “Tough, that’s why I called you in here.”_

_Zevran turned on his heel, prepared to leave but stopped when he felt the larger man grip his arm hard enough to leave bruises. “I am not some fishwife to gossip.”_

_“This isn’t gossip. I trust you, and I need your help.”_

_Zevran yanked his arm away and turned to face his friend, “Then tell me what you need.”_

_“First, answer my question. Do you or do you not, see the same thing missing from that portrait that I do?”_

_Zevran sighed and closed his eyes briefly, “Yes. Whatever it is that she has that would gladly make the both of us follow her to storm the Gates of the Black City, the painter missed it.”_

_“Every single one of them would have done that, Zev. He missed that, too. But he still missed whatever it was that makes both you and me stick with her and be grateful for whatever we can have with her.” Alistair replied, his eyes still on the painting, his arms still crossed._

_“What are you trying to get me to admit, Alistair?” Zevran asked, crossing his arms, too._

_“You know, I thought I played dense well,” Alistair told him crossly flopping gracelessly down in one of the chairs. “Do you still love her?”_

_“Maker, help me,” Zevran said, then cursed in Antivan, “Why are you asking me this?”_

_“Because I have to leave. I’ve been called to Weisshaupt.”_

_Zevran sat down in one of the chairs. “Is it about . . . Morrigan?”_

_“Maker, I hope not. But I doubt they’d have any other reason to call me there,” Alistair shrugged._

_“Why didn’t they call Moira?” Zevran asked._

_“She thinks it’s because she’s an elf and a woman. I think it’s because they have faulty information,” Alistair told him._

_“What do you want from me?” Zevran repeated._

_Alistair leaned forward, “Are you still in love with her?”_

_Zevran stood up, furious. “You have no right to ask me this.”_

_Alistair stood as well, towering over the elven man, “I have every right. I need to know that when I place her in your care, when I leave, someone will still be around that will take care of her.”_

_Zevran looked at him, startled, “Are you hiring me?”_

_Alistair laughed, “You would not protect her for money and you know it. But you would protect her for love. What if this is merely a pretense to get me away in order to assassinate the Hero of Ferelden? I’m her most obvious shield, remember?”_

_“I must be getting old. That thought had not yet crossed my mind,” Zevran said, the fury draining out of him. “You really are smarter than you look.”_

_Alistair laughed, “That’s a state secret, you know.”_

_“No one shall hear of it from me,” Zevran laughed in response. They both sat back down. “She’s going to be furious when she finds out we arranged this between us,” he pointed out._

_Alistair grinned in anticipation, “I know. It’ll be glorious!”_

The sound of his name being called brought Zevran back to the present. He was getting old, to stand lost in thought and not to even hear his name. Cullen was standing next to him. Looming, was more like it. Did they teach Templars that in their training? “Zevran, Isabella told me to tell you we needed to get below decks and out of the way. We’re casting off.”

Zevran nodded and headed below, Cullen following. Zevran opened the door to the cabin he now shared with Moira without knocking, enjoying the shocked expression on Cullen’s face. Zevran was half hoping to find her in a state of undress so he could kick Cullen out, but Moira was sitting on the bed, her back propped against the wall, reading, the Mabari lying on the floor at her feet. She glanced up, “You know, full armor on a ship doesn’t strike me as the safest idea, gentlemen.” 

Zevran smiled, “I’m sure we’ll change later. Right now, Isabella wants us out of the way.” He took the blades from out of their sheathes and laid them next to her sword on the chest. Flopping onto the bed next to her, he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling and heard Cullen shift in his plate metal and the sound of metal on wood indicated he leaned against the wall of the cabin. Moira sat her book on the bed, between her and the assassin. He turned his head to read the spine, _In Search Of the True Prophet._ Curious, he lifted it and looked it over. “Is this Wynne’s book?”

“No, another copy. She liked it so much, she bought me one before she left. It’s especially interesting given our trip to the Ashes,” she told him.

He nodded, opening the leather cover. Before he could read anything, a gauntleted fist yanked it out of his hands. Cullen read the title out loud; distaste fairly dripping from his voice. Zevran propped himself on his elbows in time to see Moira scramble off the bed and try to snatch at the book. Cullen held it out of reach. Not very difficult, considering the disparity in height. While this scene was amusing when Alistair was the one playing keep away, Cullen wasn’t doing it to be funny. The ex-Templar’s face was tight with scowling anger. “This book is wrong! How could you read this… this garbage! I am willing to follow you as far as you let me, but do not think I will tolerate this trash!” He moved toward the door. 

Moira moved in front of him, her back against the door. She crossed her arms and glared up at him, “It’s a book! What harm ever came from reading a blight-blasted book?” The two of them glared at each other, Cullen still holding the volume out of Moira’s reach. But he wasn’t watching Zevran. The assassin silently got down from the bed and fluidly crossed the short distance between the bed and the Templar and yanked the book out of his hand. 

Cullen spun around to confront Zevran, “You’re going to let her read that?”

“My dear Cullen, when will you learn? Moira is not yours to watch over. She is not yours to guard. You are not her jailor or her keeper.” Zevran stepped closer, glaring up at the bigger man. He jabbed his finger into his breast plate with each word he said. “She is not a prisoner in your Tower any longer.” Cullen glared at Zevran, his breathing coming faster. Zevran tensed himself for the punch he could see coming in the younger man’s eyes. Instead of hitting him, Cullen spun on his heel and stormed toward the door. Eyes wide, Moira scrambled out of his way as the ex-Templar left, slamming the thin door behind him. 

Moira turned to the assassin, “I’m not a prisoner in HIS tower?”

Zevran shrugged, “Merely poetic license. Do you want your book back?”


	11. Chapter 11

Cullen stormed out of the cabin, anger and jealousy eating at him. He stood in the passageway, uncertain where to go next. Isabella had made it clear non-crewmembers were unwelcome on deck and the only other cabin on the ship was the Captain’s. He was still standing in the passageway when Isabella came below. The pirate captain’s eyes went from his feet to his head, slowly. He could feel his face turn red as she grinned lazily. “Plate mail’s not a good idea on a ship, Lover. Your commanding officer wasn’t sure where you should sleep, so I offered my cabin. I suggest you change in there.” 

Cullen nodded, relieved. He didn’t think about where she was going to sleep, though, just that he had somewhere besides on deck to bunk for the night. He paused for a moment, feeling his blush deepen. “Um, there are a few straps I can’t reach myself.”

“Lover, I thought you’d never ask,” Isabella said, laughing. She passed him in the passageway, her fingers trailing along his breastplate. Reluctantly, he followed her. She bowed him in to her cabin. Lush draperies lined the wooden bulkheads. An extra large four-poster bed sat on the other side of the cabin. A wide roll top desk dominated one wall, a stool strapped underneath it. A large mahogany claw-footed table sat in an alcove to one side, three sides surrounded by a bench, the fourth with a large tall backed chair seated at it. A matching heavy mahogany wardrobe stood opposite the desk. 

Awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do with his hands, Cullen stood in the middle of the cabin, aware Isabella was staring at him, but not quite sure what to do about it. The anger at Moira’s choices in reading materials and his jealousy at Zevran’s behavior and worse, Moira’s allowance of it, were ebbing in his confusion. He turned to look at Isabella and just waited to see what she would do. “Well, Lover, don’t just stand there, start taking it off.” She seemed content to just stand there, her back against the door. The armor seemed more constrictive than usual, his fingers thicker. He fumbled the straps, trying three times to get the first buckle unfastened. 

Isabella’s hands were there, her strong, calloused fingers taking over the buckles. He met her eyes and saw the amusement behind them, but was grateful she hadn’t laughed. Silently, she finished unfastening the rest of his armor and carefully laid each piece under the heavy table where it wouldn’t slide around. He still stood there in the leather and wool he wore under the armor, not quite knowing what to do with himself. Isabella circled him, her hand touched his arm. As she passed behind him, her hand traveled up his biceps, her fingers tracing the muscles. Up and over his shoulder, across the back of his neck, and back down his other arm. Her fingers moved slowly, tracing him through the woolen tunic; he shivered. She moved around to his front, her fingers moving to his collar bone until she reached his neck. Cullen closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. Her finger reached his ear and his eyes flew open, staring at her, electric shocks traveling down his spine, and his pants became very uncomfortable. 

Isabella grinned, “Siren’s Call isn’t yet out of port, and I’ve got a job to do before I can take care of you. Sorry, Lover, I haven’t got time for anything else.” Slowly, she smiled at him, “Make yourself at home, you’ll be staying in my cabin tonight.” Cullen’s mouth fell open as he watched her walk away, her hips swaying in a way that dared him to watch, and she left the cabin.

~*~

Later that night, the ship out on the open sea rocked Moira to sleep. She never truly fell into a deep sleep, however. Her unfamiliar surroundings and Zevran’s presence was enough to ensure a restless night. The Antivan kept a pair of pants on in deference to her, but slept without a shirt. After a short argument, he put her against the wall of the ship and lay on the outside of the bed, facing the door. 

“Paranoid? Here? Zevran, who by Andraste’s knickers is going to attack us on the open ocean? “ 

He just looked at her, his eyebrows raised, “I will not argue with you on this, my Warden. You sleep against the wall.”

She woke up later, to find Zevran facing her, asleep, his head pillowed by his arm, the other arm lying against his side. She was freezing. Usually, she’d just snuggle closer to the human fireplace that was Alistair and pull the covers tighter around her. She could feel Zevran’s body heat from her side of the bed, but didn’t want to snuggle that close to a friend. And this journey was making it harder and harder to continue to think of her fellow elf as just a friend. She also couldn’t see how to get out of the bed without climbing over him, either. 

She lay there, shivering, trying to go back to sleep. Slowly she became aware of sounds that didn’t quite match the swaying of the ship in the water, the slap of the ropes on the mainmast. She held herself still in order to listen harder, almost holding her breath. There was the sound again! Had someone boarded the ship? She was about to reach over and wake up Zevran when she clearly heard Cullen’s voice in a wordless shout. She stopped hesitating and reached over to shake Zevran awake. He grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him, pinning her arms and covering her mouth with his hand. She twisted around to look at his face and he put a finger to his lips indicating silence. He released her and climbed out of the bed. They had another silent argument when he wanted her to stay. She shook her head, refusing his request. She tried to climb down as silently as he did, but got tangled in the bedclothes and nearly fell. He caught her, before she could make a lot of noise by falling to the floor. Suddenly, she was very much aware she was only wearing a shirt, oversized though it was, and underwear and he was only wearing a pair of pants. He helped her stand on her own bare feet on the deck and both walked silently to the door to the passage way, listening. They stood facing each other each straining to hear anything beyond the noises of the ship.

They heard nothing unusual for a while, but when Zevran didn’t move, Moira stood with him, still trying to listen, despite goosebumps breaking out all over from the chill in the air. Isabella’s voice shouted something that sounded like, “Oh, Maker!” Moira covered her mouth, choking back an undignified giggle. She glanced up and saw Zevran grinning. She put her finger to her lips and mouthed, “Shh!”

Another wordless shout from Cullen followed by another, “Maker!” and Moira was giggling helplessly as silently as she could. She glanced at Zevran which just made it worse because he lost the fight against laughing. She tiptoed across the deck, back to bed to get under the covers, still giggling. She moved over to let Zevran have his spot back. 

“My dear Moira, you are ice cold!” he whispered to her as he got back into bed beside her. Before she could protest, he pulled her to him, spooning her, trying to warm her up. Another chorus of wordless shouts and gasps had them both giggling again. 

“You realize he might be even pricklier than usual in the morning, right?” she whispered over her shoulder. Her shivering was finally stopping. 

“I will be surprised if he can walk in the morning,” he whispered back. Finally warm, though, Moira’s awareness of the noises faded and she fell back to sleep.

~*~

Zevran held his friend, feeling her shivering finally stop and her breathing even out into sleep. He did wish she was more than his friend, but was content to accept what she could give him, for now. He buried his face in her hair and ignored the sounds from the other cabin, falling back to sleep, too.

Daylight woke Zevran, the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. She was still sound asleep, snoring softly. He smiled and resisted the urge to kiss her pointed ear. Her backside was pressed against his hips and he struggled for a moment with the urge to push himself against her. Instead he disentangled himself and climbed down from the bed. He supposed elevating the thing and setting the mattress in a wooden box and bolting it to the bulkhead was necessary, but it didn’t make getting in and out of it easy. Especially with a snoring mage on one’s arm. 

He finally managed to extricate himself and she sleepily buried herself further under the covers. He reached into his pack that she’d apparently gone through yesterday and failed to reorganize the way he’d had it and grabbed a shirt to go up on deck. He opened the door and went over to the side of the ship that was set up as a privy. Isabella’s voice greeted him before he’d rounded the corner. “I see you have a new tattoo.” 

“Good morning, Isabella. It’s new since we last knew each other, yes,” he glanced at the thorned rose twined around his upper arm. “I thought you’d still be in your cabin, breaking in that Templar.”

She laughed, squinting into the sunrise, “He’s sleeping. I’m afraid I wore him out.” She looked at Zevran, “I see Sweetness let you get a good night’s sleep.”

Zevran shook his head, unwilling to talk about Moira. Isabella squinted at him, “That girl’s gotten to you, hasn’t she.” She laughed again, “She’s caught you and she belongs to someone else.” Isabella’s expression changed to one of sympathy as Zevran scowled and pushed past her.

~*~

Moira woke up alone in the bed and sat up. At first, she was startled, groggily looking around, wondering what was missing and where was she? The events of last night came back and she giggled to herself again over Cullen’s noisy deflowering. And then remembered Zev holding her to keep her warm. She flopped back down on her back and covered her face with her hands. She’d made this choice already, what in the Maker’s name was wrong with her? There was a reason she was wearing one of Alistair’s shirts, for Andraste’s sake! She’d woken a couple times in the night to feel him at her back, his arms cradling her. She pounded her fists and heels into the bed, angry with herself. 

She needed to get her head on straight before she actually broke her friend’s heart. Again. She wasn’t stupid, she knew it had hurt him when she’d told him it would never work between them. But he’d remained friendly anyway. She supposed it had helped that she hadn’t gone directly to Alistair’s bed after breaking up with Zevran. Alistair had still been ridiculously shy and adorably awkward about his feelings for her, asking Wynne and Lelianna how to approach her when he thought she wasn’t listening. Zevran had been hard and harsh with her despite her seeking her fellow elf’s comfort at night, telling her about the effects of poisons and his escapades as an assassin. It had been thrilling but frightening to her with her Tower-sheltered existence. She was beginning to realize now that he’d just been pushing her away, though. And she’d obliged him. But now, he was not behaving like a friend, as he had all this time since the day she’d left him, since the Blight had ended. He was acting like a man in love. 

She climbed down out of the bed, shucking off Alistair’s shirt and throwing it up on top of the covers. She padded over the cold wood deck to her chest with all the dresses in it. Black would suit her mood today, she was definitely feeling irritated. She was irritated at Alistair for leaving without her. She was irritated at Zevran. She was irritated at Isabella and Cullen, too, for good measure. And of course, the dress she wanted wasn’t on top. Or even the second one to the top. She finally found it on the bottom of the trunk. As she stood up, she heard the door shut gently, and she spun, clutching the dress to her chest. The door was closed, but a steaming bowl sat on the table. Zevran. She threw the dress on over her head, and reached back to hold it closed, rushing out the door to catch him before he went back on deck. 

She found him in the passageway and wordlessly, dragged him back to the cabin. She spun to face him. He’d put a blue woolen tunic over the pants he’d slept in. “Why didn’t you say something? How long were you there?”

The assassin grinned, “My dear Warden, I didn’t wish to disturb your getting dressed.” 

She thought about making him talk to her about how he felt, but decided that was only going to make things worse. She just smiled back at him, “Thank you for breakfast, Zevran. Would you mind tying me up?” She lifted her hair and presented her back to him. She knew what she’d said; she was trying to make him laugh.

“Oh, you mean the dress? How cruel,” he chuckled. She felt his strong deft fingers begin to tighten the laces. 

“Has Cullen made it to the land of the conscious, yet?” She draped her hair over her shoulder and pulled the dress around her torso so he could tighten it enough.

“Not since I came down here. Remind me to not get dresses with stays anymore, please?” he tugged roughly on the laces.

She grunted, “Don’t buy me anymore dresses,” she reminded him.

“Not quite what I meant, my Warden,” he finished the last loop and tied the laces together. She felt his lips brush her bare shoulder before he released her.

She spun to look at him, angry, “What are you doing?”

~*~

Zevran was startled, and his mind went blank, unable to conjure a jest that would diffuse her temper. He rarely gave in to impulse and now, with her, he’d done it twice. Had seeing her crouched over the trunk in her underwear affected him so greatly that he had no self control? She swung her hair back off her shoulder with a practiced twist of her head and advanced on him, her finger poking him in the chest until he backed up against the wall.

“What are you trying to do, Zev? As you once told me, you are no cheat. And neither am I. I belong to him, with him. We are rushing to save his life, remember?” He couldn’t answer her. Her blue eyes flashing in anger, her raven hair cascading down her back, her cheeks flushed, all of it made him speechless and made his mouth run dry. But she was right, Alistair was his friend, too. His oaths may have only been to Moira, but he did owe Alistair his friendship. He stayed pinned against the wall, staring at her, struggling to keep his face blank. She shook her head at him and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her, her Mabari at her heels. Zevran slid down the wall into a crouch, putting his face in his hands, trying to regain his composure, his hard-won coldness. Block by block, brick by brick, he rebuilt his walls, but even then, he knew they were merely a façade, an easily toppled, easily undermined sham.


	12. Chapter 12

Moira’s stomach reminded her she’d forgotten her breakfast in her cabin. Isabella greeted her, dismissing her crewmen she was giving orders to. “I trust you slept well, Sweetness?” 

“I trust you didn’t,” Moira grinned, though it was short-lived.

“I don’t know where you find these boys, my dear, but please hook me up with your supplier,” Isabella stretched, self-satisfied. She noticed Moira’s expression, “Let me guess, your assassin is up to his old tricks?”

“Old tricks?” Moira asked, looking around for somewhere more private than right outside her cabin’s windows. She began walking toward the prow of the ship. “No, I’ve seen his old tricks. He’s not acting like himself.”

Isabella nodded, but waited till they were out of earshot of the cabin to reply, “I saw that. And I apologize for my part in that. And I’m sure, as soon as he can walk,” the amusement in her voice was plain, “Cullen will, too.” They reached the prow and the two women turned to look at one another, leaning on the railing. Isabella brushed an errant curl out of Moira’s eyes. It was an oddly intimate gesture, but Moira let it pass for now. Isabella continued, “Be careful with him, Moira.” Moira blinked at the use of her given name, she thought Isabella hadn’t really known it, hence the constant, “Sweetness.” “I’m not sure he knows which end is up right now.”

Moira nodded, looking out to the horizon. She didn’t suffer from seasickness, fortunately, but the bobbing horizon was slightly unsettling. “I’m trying to. But we’re sharing a cabin.”

“Well, I’d offer to let you sleep in mine, Sweetness, but I’m having too much fun with your Templar,” Isabella laughed.

“Please stop calling him that,” Moira said, her mouth twisting in irritation. “He’s not ‘mine.’”

“He’s your recruit, is he not? Then he’s yours. Whether you take him to bed or not,” Isabella pointed out.

Moira squinted into the early morning sunlight, “Well, I think I have enough problems in the ‘taking men to bed’ area, Isabella. I don’t need more.” 

Isabella leaned on the railing with both elbows, looking out at the horizon, “I almost envy you, my dear. Many people go their whole lives never finding even one person to fall in love with who loves them back. And you have two. “

“I don’t – I’m not –,” Moira began.

Isabella waved her hand, interrupting the mage, “Yes, you do and you are. I had fun with your Alistair and you, and Zevran was a joy in the brief time he was with me, despite him killing the husband I didn’t love, and causing me a great deal of inconvenience. However, Alistair barely looked at me while were all together and I’ve never seen Zevran watch anyone the way he watches you. By the way, you really are worth watching in that color. And where did you get that dress?”

Moira felt her cheeks redden, “Zevran bought this and a few other dresses for me in Highever.” 

Isabella laughed, “That man does have it bad, if he’s buying you clothes! He has excellent taste, by the way. In clothes and women.”

“Speaking of clothes, I don’t suppose you have any pants and shirts I could borrow? He hid all mine,” Moira told her ruefully, changing the subject; it had taken a turn for the uncomfortable. She’d hoped Isabella would have been able to aid her in figuring out what to do with her friend, but the captain hadn’t been of any assistance. Hopefully, the pirate’s exertions with Cullen would prove more helpful.

“You’re joking! “ Isabella replied, “No, I can see you’re not. I’ve got a cabingirl about your size, I’ll see if she has any spare clothes. We’ll be docking in Antiva City, soon, though. We need supplies and cargo for Minrathrous. You can buy new clothes there.”

Moira’s stomach grumbled loudly and the Mabari whined, “I don’t suppose there’s still breakfast left? And a bone for Perrin?” _Antiva City, great. I wonder if the old contract was still out on me and Alistair?_

Isabella turned her head at the change in subject and the noise Moira’s stomach made, “I see the Grey Warden appetite is not false, then.”

Moira put her hands to her stomach, “No, it’s not. Mabaris’ either.”

Isabella and Moira went to get the Grey Warden some more breakfast and to find a bone for Perrin. Safely sitting cross legged on deck out of the way of the busy crew, Moira and Perrin ate their breakfast. She was still seated, however, so that she could see the door to the cabins. She was waiting to see if Zevran would come out so she could apologize for getting so upset. However, Zevran wasn’t the first to emerge into the swiftly growing daylight. Cullen stepped out into the bright morning sun, squinting. She smiled, watching Isabella hurry over to greet him. The pirate captain ran her fingers up along the young man’s jawline and into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers for a good morning kiss. Moira felt compelled to look away, though, as Cullen pulled the older woman close to him, his hands on the small of her back and Isabella’s other hand travelled down to grab Cullen’s ass. She scratched Perrin behind the ears, studiously ignoring her friends’ display of open lust. 

She ate the last bit of porridge in her bowl and set it aside as a shadow fell on her. She looked up, squinting into the sunlight. Zevran stood in front of her, hands on his hips, scowling down at her. She stood up, to meet him on equal ground, before he could crouch down to her level. “Isabella told me we’ll be stopping over in Antiva City for supplies and cargo.”

He cursed in Antivan, “And I suppose you’ll want to disembark there, then?” It was going to be a nightmare protecting her in the heart of Crow territory. Especially since Cullen wasn’t yet up to either of their standards.

Moira shrugged, “I need clothes other than dresses, Zev. I can’t train in a dress and I am sorely out of shape.”

Zevran blinked. “Then I apologize for getting rid of your clothes.” 

Moira didn’t want him to apologize for kissing her, either time. She knew he’d come out here to apologize, but she changed her mind, sweeping everything under the carpet was probably safer. She was getting to be better at that than he was. She wasn’t sure what she really wanted from him, other than his friendship, but an apology for how he felt wasn’t called for in the least. “I’ve arranged to borrow some clothes from one of Isabella’s crew. We can at least get some practice in before we dock in Antiva City.”

Zevran turned to look at Cullen and Isabella still kissing their good mornings, “I see Cullen enjoyed his education last night.”

Moira laughed humorlessly, “Isabella said he was a good student.”

~*~

The days leading up to docking at Antiva City went quickly. Other than sleeping, Zevran and Moira managed to avoid each other, not an easy feat on the small ship. Cullen was still enraptured by Isabella and they kept disappearing down to her cabin periodically throughout the day. Even sleeping, Moira kept to her side of the bed after getting extra blankets from Isabella. She also stopped wearing the dresses and stuck to the borrowed sleeveless shirt that was too small across her shoulders and breasts and loose across her stomach and pants that were too tight in the legs but loose around her hips. She felt ridiculous, but the dresses were just too hard to maneuver in on deck and she was too confused about Zevran to keep wearing them.

One day out from Antiva City, however, and Moira had had enough. She was beginning to miss Alistair more and more with each passing day and watching Cullen and Isabella make out almost constantly was irritating. She went below and grabbed her sword and dagger and Zev’s blades. She stalked back up, searching for Zevran. Her Mabari flopped down on the deck, basking in the noon sun as she walked purposefully over to the Antivan with her handful of weapons. She stopped in front of him, as he leaned on the rail at the prow. He was shirtless, again. She kept her eyes riveted to his face as he stared at her lazily. Wordlessly she handed him his blades. He took them from her, his eyebrows raised. 

“I’m tired of standing around,” she told him. “And if we’re expecting trouble tomorrow, I’d rather not be too rusty to remember which end of the sword goes where.”

“The pointy end always goes into the bad guy, my dear Moira,” he quipped, bouncing loosely to ready himself. 

“Don’t you want to put a shirt on?” She asked, rolling her shoulders.

“All the better to distract you with, my Warden,” Zevran purred, then launched at her in an attack. She barely got her blades up in time to block his opening slash. Using her foot, she shoved him backward. 

“Distract? You flatter yourself,” she said, moving around him. He traveled with her, mimicking her motions so that they moved opposite in a circle. With the tightening of his pectoral muscles, she saw the projection of his lunge before he did it, and had her blades up to block him again. This time, as she shoved him back, she followed with an offensive slash and parry that cost him his offhand dagger. Without missing a beat, he flipped backward toward where he’d lost his dagger and grabbed it. 

He saluted her with his sword, “Point to the Warden.”

She bowed, and was just barely able to deflect his next strike, parrying and taking several steps back. She hadn’t yet begun to use her magic to augment her strength, however. She could tell the assassin was taking it easy on her and not hitting her hard enough for her to need that boost. And it was making her angry, “Stop trying to hit me and HIT ME!” She grated through her teeth as their blades crossed to the hilts again bringing them close together.

They separated, breathing a little heavier than normal, but both knew they weren’t really working their hardest. Zevran’s expression was neutral as he replied, “You want to do this for real, then, my Warden? So be it.” Again they circled each other, Moira bringing her magic up to augment her strength.

~*~

Cullen came back on deck after another round with Isabella to find the Warden and the Assassin doing their best to try to kill each other. Or so it seemed from the outside. He’d learned enough watching them fight others that he knew each was pulling back from killing or maiming the other, but were still doing their best to dominate the fight. Cullen started forward to break it up before one of them got hurt. Isabella’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Don’t, Lover. They’re just working out some… kinks.”

“What are you talking about? They’re going to hurt one another,” he told her gesturing.

“I’m afraid they’ve already done that.”

~*~

Moira blinked sweat out of her eyes, parrying another thrust from Zev and jumping over a pile of ropes. She feinted with her own blade, bringing her own dagger up, searching for a hole in his guard. He twisted and deflected, not falling for the feint. Blades flashed in the sunlight, Moira thought only of the next move, the next strike, the next obstacle. The only thing that existed was the elf in front of her with his dancing weapons. He managed to get in a lucky strike with the flat of his blade on her arm and her suddenly numb fingers dropped her sword. She ducked his next hit, parrying with her dagger as she dove for her sword. Before she could regain her feet, he was kneeling above her with his dagger at her throat. “Do you yield, my Warden?” His face was unreadable. 

Moira considered. She was exhausted, but her mind still raced frantically. This fight hadn’t been enough. Not by a long shot. However, she wasn’t done, “Do you?” She flicked her eyes downward where her dagger was inches away from his femoral artery.

He rose, holding his hand out to help her up, “Touche. A draw, then.” 

“No, it’s not,” she told him, shaking her head. She walked over and yanked a bit of twine from one of the rope piles and quickly braided her hair out of her face. She looked over at him, just watching her, caution written on his face. She grinned tightly at him, then rushed him, feinting with her blade and thrusting with her sword, he knocked the feint aside and blocked her strike. Then, he went on the offensive. She was forced to retreat and parry his deft blades as he sought her weaknesses. Their eyes locked and Moira was able to gain the upper hand again, pushing him backwards.

~*~

With increasing alarm, Cullen watched the two elves renew their combat, both their expressions grim with concentration. Even as experienced a fighter as he was, he almost couldn’t follow their movements, Zevran’s decades of experience counterbalancing Moira’s Grey Warden stamina and her magical strength. He thought he saw Moira slip once, but she recovered swiftly. He couldn’t tell if Zevran had missed that window of opportunity or ignored it. “We need to put a stop to this,” he told Isabella.

Cullen watched Isabella look around at her crew. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to watch the two fighters dance across the deck. Cullen had to admit, if he hadn’t been worried about both of them, and he was surprised to find himself counting the assassin as his friend, he’d have had to admire their grace as each tried to disable the other. The crew was starting to shout bets to one another, choosing sides in the supposed training exercise. Cheering when they thought one or the other was about to yield or win. 

“No, I don’t think I’m going to stop it quite yet, Lover,” Isabella said, crossing her arms and watching Moira and Zevran lock blades to the hilts again and shove each other away. “They need this. Just relax and watch the show. I have plenty of poultices, should they need them. They should wear each other out, soon.”

~*~

Moira was beginning to feel exhaustion strain her arms and legs. She’d almost made a mistake a few seconds ago. Either Zevran was getting tired too, since he didn’t take advantage of it, or he was being polite. From the expression of concentration on his face, it was probably the former. She lost track of her footing and tripped over a rope. She started to fall and swung her legs on the way down, tripping him, too. Unfortunately, it was a miscalculation. He fell on top of her, and managed to pin her hands. “Now do you yield, my Warden?” 

She stared into his hazel eyes, his face inches from hers. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart pounded in her ears, she could smell the sweat coating his bare skin, the salt spray that mingled in his braided hair, that indefinable scent that was Zevran. The strength pinning her arms did not waiver, despite the fact that he was as exhausted and as out of breath as she. She shifted her hips under him, trying to dislodge him. She felt him harden against her and automatically grind his hips before freezing and staring down at her. She swallowed, “No.” 

“What was that?” His tone was teasing, his features relaxing into a grin as he seemed to regain control of himself. “I didn’t quite hear you.” 

“Get off me,” she told him, though she didn’t really have the energy to push him off. Her arms, she could tell, had about as much strength as a cooked noodle. 

“Then, I yield to you, my Warden,” he flung himself off her and rolled over on his back on the deck. “I don’t think I could move even an eyebrow,” he closed his eyes. “If you still have the strength, perhaps you could train Cullen, then?” He opened one eye to look at her as she struggled to her feet. She gathered up their weapons and stepped over Zevran, not dignifying his joke with an answer. Her knees felt like they were barely holding her weight, but she willed her legs to work and stumbled to her cabin.

~*~

Cullen turned to Isabella as the mage passed, “THAT’s something they needed?” 

“Lover, you have a lot to learn about people, especially complicated people like your Warden and her assassin.” Isabella whistled loudly, “Fun’s over, back to work!” She shouted at her crew. She motioned to Cullen to follow her. He stood behind her as she knelt by Zevran. “Are you all right, my friend?”

He opened an eye to look at her, “I think she may have killed me, Isabella.” 

“You’re tougher than one pissed off mage who’s worried sick, Zevran,” Isabella held out a hand to help him sit up. “She really misses her king, doesn’t she?”

Zevran stood up, stretching. “I think we both do.” He wandered back to the prow of the ship.


	13. Chapter 13

Moira was dreaming. The days without real sleep and her exertions on deck with Zevran finally caught up to her and she fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow that night. She fell into a nightmare almost immediately.

Alistair slouched against a damp, rough stone wall, his arms outstretched by shackles. The stench of bodily waste, suffering, and rotten food permeated the air around him. His once-blue shirt was torn in various places and blood-and-dirt stained. His gray trousers were in equally rough shape. She managed to look closer and saw from his face he’d been badly beaten, his nose broken, one eye swelled shut, his lips cut. Bruises mottled his body from what she could see in the tears on his shirt. She could feel every wound on him as if she was actually there and linked to him with her healing ability. He tilted his head back as if he knew she was there, “Moira, no. Stay away,” she barely heard him mutter through his cracked and bleeding lips. As she stood frozen in horror, her insubstantial body useless, two mailed guards with wicked-looking blades sheathed on their backs came and unlocked his shackles, hauling him to his feet. Alistair twisted his head around to turn his one good eye toward where she stood. “Get out of here!” 

One of the guards shook his head, “Man’s lost it. You think a Grey Warden would be tougher.”

The other guard punched Alistair in the stomach, “Shut it!” He spat at Alistair, “You’re a bleeding disgrace!” Alistair twisted and got his arm free, punching the guard who’d spat on him in the face, causing the man to stagger back, his nose gushing blood. The other guard shoved Alistair hard enough to knock him down and began kicking him. Alistair grabbed the man’s leg and twisted , bringing the man down, flat on his back, his knee wrenched. Moira tried to rush forward to help the man she loved, but before she could get her incorporeal body to obey her, lighting flared out from somewhere in the hall and Alistair screamed in pain, falling to his knees. She screamed, the same agony flaring throughout her body, the pain waking her up. She found herself huddled at the head of the bed, trembling, her throat raw from yelling, Zevran trying to shake her awake. “We have to hurry,” she told him, her eyes wide and terrified. “They’re torturing him.” _Maker send it was only a dream,_ but she knew the truth in her heart, somehow, through the Fade, she’d visited him in his cell.

“Why?” Zevran sat back on his heels. “Even if he would not tell them of . . . Morrigan, he’s one of them.”

“I know. It’s nearly dawn. We should head into the city soon for supplies and some clothes for me as soon as we’re docked,” she scooted past him to get out of bed. “Hopefully, Isabella can be convinced to make this short.”

Several hours later, Moira, Zevran, Perrin and Cullen were standing in the middle of a square outside the dock district, looking for some place that sold clothes. Moira had left her armor behind, but had been prudent enough to wear her mage robes and had her staff, Final Reason, strapped to her back. Cullen and Zevran were in their full armor with their weapons bristling. “Look, no sense in all of us going to one shop. I’ll meet you at that tavern over there in two hours,” Moira said. “You two, go do whatever. See if you can find more injury kits or health poultices.” She handed them one of the bags of coins on her belt. Zevran took it and attached it to his own belt. 

Oddly enough, though, it wasn’t Zevran who argued at her going off by herself. “No,” Cullen said. “We stick together, or we don’t go.”

Zevran grabbed the taller man’s arm, “Don’t argue with her. Let’s go.” Looking at Moira, he told her, “Two hours, my Warden, any more and I find you.” He took off through the crowded square, leaving her with her Mabari. 

It didn’t take her too long to find someplace to get some clothes. The tailor even had some made that the original purchaser had refused to pay for which were close enough to Moira’s measurements it wouldn’t take more than a few hours to make them fit her. She tipped the tailor a few extra silvers to see the clothes delivered to the Siren’s Call. All she had to do now was wait at that tavern she’d pointed out to Zev and Cullen. 

She entered the tavern and allowed her eyes to adjust. It was close to midafternoon, so the common room was fairly empty. It was also a dive. The tables weren’t clean nor cleared, the chairs and stools appeared to be in disrepair and there were puddles of unidentifiable fluids on the floor. Flies buzzed lazily in the heat, and the stench was a potent mixture of spilled ale, sour food and vomit. There were two groups of men at opposite sides of the room, huddled together. Neither group looked reputable, the men all unshaven and apparently unwashed, the women barely dressed and non-too clean either. A lone patron wearing a full cloak, even in the Antivan heat, sat at the bar, nursing a tankard of what Moira presumed was ale. The bartender, a scruffy, grizzled and emaciated man, gestured at Moira, “That’ll have to wait outside!”

Startled, Moira looked at the disheveled proprietor, “What?”

“Your dog, it’ll have to wait outside. I don’t serve their kind here. Nasty beasts!” The bartender shouted.

Moira looked around, debating on pressing the issue. She finally decided arguing for her dog was pointless and turned around to leave. They could find her outside. She started to leave, but was stopped when a familiar face entered the tavern. It was on her lips to say his name in greeting, when the burly Crow shook his head, imperceptibly. Ignacio was still bald, still built like a smith, and still scowling. He pushed past her in the doorway, stumbling into her, and she felt him slip something in her pocket. She knew he did that on purpose, she wouldn’t have felt a thing if he hadn’t wanted her to. “Get out of my way,” he slurred, stumbling backwards. 

Behind her, someone said, “Is there a problem with this,” the eyes that belonged to one of the slovenly patrons looked her up and down, dismissively, “elf?” 

Ignacio sneered, “Who’s go’ problems with elves?” And stumbled away.

The drunk man lurched over to Moira and loomed, Perrin growled menacingly, “An elf an’ her stupid dog. You shouldn’t be here where decent people, decent hard working people come to get away from your kind.” His Antivan accent made his speech difficult to understand, but she figured out most of what he was saying, given her practice in hearing Zevran speak. 

She stepped back, motioning to Perrin to stay. “I didn’t mean any trouble, master…? I’ll be on my way,” She tried to adopt an Antivan accent, her Ferelden speech patterns would stand out like a sore thumb here. It galled her to have to act submissive, but she wasn’t here in an official capacity, and had no desire to attract the notice of the Crows beyond what she’d already experienced with Ignacio. The fool drunkard also apparently couldn’t see her staff or didn’t know what it and the scant robes she was wearing meant. She bowed her head slightly, in mock deference, but more to keep the snarl of anger she was trying to control from being seen. She glanced up in time to see the man pass out at her feet.

Cries of, “Lookit what that elf did!” and “Damned dirty elf, robbing people!” and “Get the knife ear!” filled the filthy tavern. She didn’t want to have to fight a room full of drunks, but if they insisted…. She unlimbered her staff and prepared a spell to stun them when they all charged. The patron at the bar looked over at Moira during this interesting turn of events, then looked around at the charging drunkards. Flinging off her cloak, Moira was surprised to see Leliana!

The Bard and sometime assassin shouted over the cries of the men, “Looks like another tavern you need rescuing in!” Moira laughed and set off her stun spell.

“You know me! I have to make an entrance!” Moira yelled as Leliana’s presence filled its familiar place in her mind, next to Perrin’s and she wrapped her strength around her fists and started using her staff like a club. It wouldn’t do to actually kill any of these men with magic, no matter how much they’d angered her with their prejudice. She punched one of the drunks in the jaw and he went down, unconscious. Leliana hit another over the head with the pommel of her sword. Moira ducked a drunken swing and hit the man in the stomach then the nose. It didn’t take long for the two women to completely incapacitate the drunken men. Since she never released Perrin from his “stay,” he sat out the fight, head on his paws, watching and whining.

When the last man lay twitching, holding his groin from a particularly vicious kick from Leliana, Moira walked over to the fuming barkeep and tossed him a couple silvers. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. She motioned for Perrin to follow her as she and Leliana stepped out into the sunlight. Moira found it interesting that during the entire fight, Ignacio never stepped in, nor were the guards called. 

When they got outside, Leliana turned and hugged her. Hugging her back, Moira asked, “Why are you in Antiva? I’d have thought you were up to your ears in intrigue in Val Royeaux?” 

Leliana shook her head while she bent to scratch Perrin’s ears in greeting, “I am still looking for Marjolaine. She’s managed to stay one step ahead of me all this time. Why are you in Anitva? What happened to your handsome prince? Did he turn into a frog?”

Moira’s amusement at seeing her old friend abated, she struggled to keep her expression blank, “Hardly anything so prosaic. But I don’t want to tell you about it in the middle of Antiva City.” 

Leliana frowned at her in concern, but was prevented from asking anything further by Zevran’s voice shouting her name. Moira smiled as her two friends hugged one another. Cullen stayed behind Zevran and Moira noted the ex-Templar trying to stay alert for danger in the crowded square. He might actually make a good Warden, yet, she thought.

Leliana finally noticed him, “And who is this?”

Before Moira could answer, Zevran replied, “This is Cullen of Lake Calenhad, late of the Templars.” He wisely didn’t mention the Grey Wardens. Moira approved, since that title would draw more attention than they needed right now. Leliana bowed her head slightly to him, and Zevran continued, “Cullen, this is Leliana, and other than our dear Moira, one of the most dangerous women in Thedas.” 

Leliana laughed then looked from Moira to Zevran, “All right, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m done shopping, and I think I’ve caused enough problems today. Where are you staying, Leliana?” Moira asked.

“I haven’t gotten rooms yet,” the bard said.

“Then join us on the _Siren’s Call_ ,” Zevran told her. Leliana quirked an amused eyebrow at Moira, she knew about Isabella, after all. Moira had told her one night when they shared a watch and too much of Oghren’s ale. 

Moira shook her head, remembering the dinner at Highever, “Just don’t ask.”

Leliana laughed as they headed for the ship.

~*~

Leliana leaned on her elbows on the railing of the ship facing the deck. Moira leaned on it facing the docks, watching the late night scurrying as crews returned to their berths and last minute cargo was loaded. Her clothes had arrived without a hitch earlier and they were set to cast off the day after tomorrow. Earlier, she’d surreptitiously handed Zevran the note Ignacio had given her. In plain block lettering, it had said, “Dawn’s First Light at Sunset.” Zevran had turned pale at the cryptic note and disappeared into the cabin they shared. Leliana had merely tilted her head inquiringly at Moira who’d nodded toward the prow of the ship. 

The two women stood next to each other, silently regarding their individual vistas. “So, what did you not want to tell me earlier?” Leliana asked.

Moira looked down at her hands, “He’s being held prisoner. By the Grey Wardens at Weisshaupt. “

Leliana gasped. “Why would they do such a thing? Do you know?” 

“I do, but I can’t say. It’s better you don’t know,” Moira refused to look at her friend, afraid she’d spill everything under the gaze of those forgiving blue eyes.

“All right. So what was in your pocket that you handed to Zevran?” Leliana said, her voice reflecting her annoyance at Moira’s secrecy.

“It was a request for a meeting. I can only assume there’s another contract out on me, or maybe Alistair, or Zevran, I really don’t know,” Moira shrugged. The chill of the night was beginning to get to her in the scant mage robes and she shivered. “All I know is that the note Ignacio slipped me is probably leading us into a trap. I could use your help, Leliana.”

“And tomorrow you will have it. But I cannot help you with Alistair,” Leliana said, turning to face Moira.

“Why not?” Moira wasn’t proud of how panicked her voice sounded.

“Because, my friend, Marjolaine has gone to Denerim. You and I both know what kind of business she’s in, Moira. I cannot let her wreak her havoc on Ferelden,” Leliana told her. 

“I understand, and you’re right, that’s important, too,” she tried to keep her voice neutral.

Leliana reached over and rubbed Moira’s back, comfortingly, “I know you must be terribly worried about him, my friend. I can only imagine the agony you’re going through.”

Moira turned and leaned against the railing, crossing her arms over her chest, “I keep having nightmares about him.” Of their own volition, her eyes sought out Zevran where he sat on the deck, cleaning and sharpening his blades. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leliana turn her head to follow her friend’s gaze. “And when did that happen?”

Moira turned her head to look at Leliana, “What are you talking about?”

“If you could only see your face when you looked at him; it’s the same way you look at Alistair.”

“It is not,” Moira frowned at her.

Leliana laughed, shrugging, “All right, if you say so. But he watches you in much the same way.” Moira just looked at her, not sure what to say to that. “But, I’d be careful of that young man, Cullen.” 

Moira nodded, “We are. Perrin watches him like a hawk, and Zevran tries to make sure I’m never alone with him. I haven’t even begun training him.”

Leliana nodded, “That explains why Zevran is sharing a cabin with you.” The trace of irony in her voice must be Moira’s imagination.

She was glad the darkness hid her blush. “We’re trying to beat it into his skull I’m his commanding officer, not some mage apostate escaped from the tower. I was glad to see him start sleeping with Isabella.”

Leliana tsked, “When he’s out of the presence of our hostess, Moira, you might find he’s a bit worse with the education to match his fantasies. I hope the two of you can deal with him before you find Alistair.”

The Mabari trotted over to Moira, “Me, too,” Moira said scratching Perrin’s ears as he flopped heavily at her feet.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, Moira woke up in the cabin. She’d originally intended to sleep on deck with Perrin, but Zevran threw a fit at the idea of her being without any sort of guard other than her dog, especially in light of the note Ignacio had slipped her. Another argument she’d lost. So, she and Leliana shared the bed in the cabin with Zevran sleeping on the floor. The Mabari slept in the room, too, but lay blocking the doorway. Moira climbed over the still-sleeping Leliana to find that Zevran had already left the cabin, taking Perrin with him. 

“No wonder he’s looking at you like that, if that’s all you sleep in, my friend,” Leliana said, sleepily.

Moira looked down at Alistair’s shirt, “It’s all I have with me. When I packed for this journey, it was going to just be me and Perrin. Don’t really have to care what you sleep in when it’s just your dog.”

Leliana laughed, sitting up, “No doubt. And packing light is more of a priority. When we kissed that night in camp, I fancied myself in love with you, too. But I know you were right, I wasn’t in love with you, just in love with being in love. And you were already torn between them.” She turned over to look at her friend, her head leaning on her hand, “I just don’t want to see any of the three of you hurt, Moira.”

The mage scrubbed at her face, ending up running her fingers along her scalp in frustration, “You and me, both.” 

Half an hour later, Leliana and Moira emerged from the cabin to the deck, clad in their full armor, their swords strapped to their backs, Spellweaver glistening with ice and crackling with lightning. Zevran and Cullen turned at their approach. “What say we go spring a snare on some Crows, my dear Warden?” Zevran asked by way of greeting. 

“What do you have in mind?” Moira looked around at the busy crew. They were stowing cargo in preparation for casting off first thing in the morning. 

“I think Perrin should stay here,” the dog growled at him before Zevran continued, “to make sure they are unable to set a trap for us back here, my canine friend,” the elf reassured the Mabari who barked happily in response.

Moira grinned at her dog, “And what we will do?” 

“Leliana and I will search the area in which the meeting will be taking place. I actually do know it quite well, seeing as I was born there,” Zevran said.

Moira blinked at that bit of information, “And Cullen and I?”

“Will be conspicuously waiting, but under our watchful eye, the entire time,” he told Moira, but seemed to be aiming that last phrase at Cullen, who scowled, catching the elf’s meaning.

“Glad to know I’m trusted,” he snarled.

Leliana patted his arm, “You are trusted, my friend. Moira’s just very important to all of us and we don’t want either of you overwhelmed by the Crows.”

Isabella was suddenly standing to one side of the group, “Did I hear you correctly? The Crows? Zevran you promised they’d have nothing to do with you or this ship while we were here.”

“I know I did, my dear Isabella. But somehow they knew we were here anyway,” he spread his hands, trying to placate her.

The captain looked at each face in the small group, “Fine. But we cast off at midnight, then. With or without you. If I have to leave you behind, I’ll send your dog ashore and make sure your belongings make it to Denerim on my next stop. I’d cast off sooner, finding this out, but I’ve got cargo waiting. I do not mess with the Crows.”

Moira nodded, “I suppose that’s reasonable. I won’t ask you to risk your crew coming to the attention of the Crows either. Perrin will be able to find me, no matter what, if that’s what you must do. And if he does appear, we will know that you had to leave.” She looked at her friends. “Pack everything we can carry, just in case.” She turned to Isabella as Zevran and Cullen went below deck to gather everything. “I was going to have to leave that trunk here anyway, Isabella. Could you drop it in Denerim when you can?” 

The pirate captain glared, but nodded, then left to shout orders at her crew. 

Some time later, near sunset, Moira stood in front of the questionably named house of ill-repute Dawn’s First Light, the skin on her back prickling with the sense of being watched. Cullen stood tensely next to her, glaring at every shadow. He’d kissed Isabella good bye with a strangely reserved passion, despite everyone looking away to give them privacy. Moira hoped they’d make it back to the ship in time to cast off with the pirate, but knew the chances were slim if this went poorly. She had no idea where Zevran and Lelianna had gone. Even opening her healing ability gave her only a vague direction of up, or to the left. The shadows grew as sunset approached, Moira feeling more uncomfortable by the second, and realizing she missed her Mabari’s comforting presence. Cullen took up his place in her mind, too, but made her miss her true shield, Alistair, all that much more.

Ignacio exited the building across from Dawn’s First Light and approached her. Cullen glared at him, his arms crossed menacingly. Moira tried not to slump in relief as she felt Leliana and Zevran approach from the shadows behind her. Ignacio stopped in front of her, “I see you took precautions.”

“Did you really expect me not to?” she asked.

“No, I’ve seen you work. I did not. But we have many things to discuss,” his heavy accent was difficult to understand. “Hopefully, somewhere more private?” 

Moira looked around at the nearly empty street. No one was within earshot. “No, I think here is good.”

Ignacio nodded, “As you’ve probably guessed, someone has requested you and your friends have an accident. As we agreed in Denerim, no new contracts have been allowed against the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, but this was against the Chancellor.” 

“So, keeping the spirit, if not the letter of our agreement, Ignacio?” Moira said, crossing her arms. 

“Few in Antiva know they are one and the same, Warden. However, I am not foolish enough to test the Blight Queller, no matter her title.” The assassin shrugged, “Also, I am thinking, it is good to have a favor owed by one so powerful, yes? I am thinking, I come to you at a later date, and you grant me that favor, yes?”

Moira narrowed her eyes at Ignacio, “If it doesn’t jeopardize my friends, my family, allies, my king and country or myself, I will grant whatever favor you want as long as it’s within my power.” 

Ignacio smiled, “There are a lot of conditions on that, Warden, but I accept your terms. I promise my favor will not be so onerous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to elsewhere.” The assassin stepped backward, still facing her, until he seemed to meld with the shadows.

Before anyone could move, or say anything, however, the four were suddenly surrounded by nearly a dozen black shrouded figures with weapons drawn. Weapons sprang into hands as the small group was circled, the attackers looking for a weakness in their defenses.

Cullen cursed, “That son of a bitch set us up!”

“Ya think?” Moira told him. However, Moira didn’t think it that simple. This ambush was only to cover the meeting. If he’d been serious about betraying her, there were far more subtle and sneaky ways she couldn’t escape even with Zevran and his extreme paranoia. All the Crows looked alike in their armor, so she Mind Blasted them all, and leapt to attack, picking one at random. Zevran was there at her side immediately, hamstringing her stunned target. Cullen managed to attract most of the attackers that had resisted Moira’s spell, and Leliana flowed around him, backstabbing and slashing the black clothed assassins.

There was no time to think as the hired killers began to come out of the spell and fight back. Moira ducked a swing at her neck and swung her sword in a feint then brought her dagger in under her opponent’s raised arm and buried it up to the hilt in his heart. Yanking it out, she allowed the motion to flow into a parry of another assassin’s attack, Zevran leaped around behind her and fended off a blade seeking to bury itself in her back. She parried another attack from the Crow in front of her, and Leliana was suddenly there, behind him, her dagger in his throat. The bard yanked it free and kicked out, her leg connecting with one who had just leapt on Moira almost knocking the mage over. In her moment of distraction, however, she faltered in her monitoring of her friends’ health. Leliana didn’t quite duck a dagger strike under her arm, but only managed to get the knife to slice the artery in her arm, not buried in her heart. Zevran took a mean slash across his thigh, opening up the blood vessel there. Cullen was struck by the flat of someone’s blade on the back of his neck, bringing the young man to his knees, she could almost feel his ears ringing from the blow. Panic filled her, but was quickly stifled into anger and she channeled that to her energy, feeling herself fill with power, she reached into the Fade and ripped energy free and flung it at her friends. Instantly, their wounds closed, and Cullen’s head stopped ringing and he lunged to his feet, finishing off the assassin in front of him. 

Just as suddenly, they were down to one Crow whose eyes flicked from one to the other of the companions and he turned and sprinted down an alley. Zevran’s and Leliana’s throwing daggers blossomed from his back. Moira wiped the sweat from her eyes. This had been a minor skirmish among many in her life. Why was she shaking? 

_The Archdemon perched on the tower of Fort Drakon spewing its blue fire at them. Alistair had pulled her close to him, raising his shield to take the brunt of the heat and the flame and the sheer power the thing spewed at them. She felt dark haired swamp witch Morrigan rip the Fade to throw a Curse of Mortality at the thing. Then it was upon them, Moira and Leliana and Alistair hacking at the beast, its foul-smelling, blackened blood pouring over them. Moira could feel Morrigan continue to throw spells at it. Then, before he could dodge, Moira watched in horror as the beast scooped Alistair up in its mouth and shook him like a Mabari with a bone. Her heart in her throat, she threw all her energy into healing him, continuously reknitting his flesh as the monster ripped him open. Leliana and Morrigan finally hit it enough to make it drop him, and Moira was there to help him to his feet and together they rushed the Archdemon again._

_It was a long and bloody battle, fighting that thing and its minions. When it finally lay gasping on the ground, Moira’s rage got the better of her and she yanked the heaviest, biggest sword she could find out of a corpse and threw herself down the length of its neck, her anger not content with anything other than slitting that monster open. And then, from across the tower, meeting Alistair’s eyes as he sprinted toward her to stop her, just in case Morrigan’s ritual wouldn’t work, she plunged the sword into the thing’s head. Agony and the weight of ages enveloped her and she screamed her rage at it. Eons and centuries flashed before her eyes, **what had been, what was now, what would be**. Her father, turning her over to the Templars, Jowan’s long face smiling at her as they played one of their innumerable pranks on Cullen, the betrayal at Ishal, in Ostagar, Loghain’s head hitting the floor in the Landsmeet, Alistair’s lips on hers, their bodies entwined. The Darkspawn digging and freeing it, spreading its wings for the first time in centuries, the joy of flight, the song of the sunlight and the song of the taint in both their blood. She felt as if she were searching for something, something to save her, something to keep her there, and then, both of them spotted Morrigan and something called to them, called sweetly and beautifully, a sweet ecstasy of a song. But sweeter than that what called to the dragon was what called to Moira: Alistair’s scent, his touch, the feel of his strong arms holding her as he thrust into her, Zevran’s eyes when he laughed, a sweet, rare sound, the noxious smell of the Antivan leather he insisted upon wearing, the one and only night she’d given him._

_The explosion knocked Moira free of the dragon’s corpse, sending her sliding across the stone floor of the tower, ripping her away from whatever that was, and she lay there for a time, unable to move, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was barely able to turn her head enough to see Morrigan stand up shakily, her hand on her abdomen._

Zevran was suddenly in front of her, bringing her out of her memories, his hands on her shoulders shaking her. “What?” She twisted out of his grip, “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.” Would she ever stop reliving that battle in one way or another after every fight? She rubbed her temples, a headache forming. “Since I have even less desire to walk through the Imperium than I do Antiva, what say we get back to Siren’s Call, fast?’ 

“I’m afraid this is where I leave you, though, Moira.” Leliana said, sheathing her sword. 

“I understand, my friend,” Moira said, embracing her friend. “Be safe, we will see you as soon as we can.” Zevran hugged the bard good bye, too, and without another word, she’d disappeared into the shadows of an alley.

Moira looked at Cullen and Zevran, “I guess we’d better run if we want to get back to the _Siren’s Call_ before Isabella gets impatient.” They headed back to the ship as quickly as they could.

But it apparently wasn’t fast enough. They arrived at the docks to find the Mabari sitting on the pier waiting for them, his stump of a tail wagging and the Siren’s Call halfway out in the harbor. “Well, there goes your lover, my friend,” Zevran said, slapping Cullen on the back in irritation. “Have I mentioned how much I hate Tevinter?” 

Moira sighed, looking up at the moon, rising over the city. “Well, at least it’s a pretty night. Anyone else want to stay in a town full of Crows?” 

Both men replied, “No.”

“Then let’s get out of sodding Antiva City.” Moira started walking, hearing the two men follow her. 

They left the city quietly near midnight and began heading west. Moira tried very hard not to think about the distance she still had to travel before getting to Alistair. It had been easier not to think about him while stuck on that ship, and distracted by Cullen and Isabella. And Zevran. She wrenched herself back to thinking about the beauty of the night, listening for crickets as the city fell away behind them.


	15. Chapter 15

Moira called a halt four hours from dawn, and they left the road to set up camp in a stand of trees. Zevran drew short straw and got the midwatch. Moira had last watch and had decided to sleep in the leathers that went under her armor. 

She dreamed again, walking the Fade. She wasn’t sure how she was able to find Alistair each time, but again she visited his cell. His head hung forward as if he couldn’t hold it upright anymore, his clothes were even worse for wear. She pushed herself forward to try to touch him, her heart breaking at seeing him chained and beaten, but her fingers wouldn’t touch him, just passed through him. 

“You cannot touch him, you know,” Morrigan’s voice behind her made her startle so badly, the vision of her love’s cell wavered for a moment. She turned to see Morrigan standing there, her body as insubstantial as Moira’s. She was wearing a dark-colored, long, hooded robe, as if it were cold where she was. 

“What are you doing here, Morrigan?” Moira demanded, jealousy making her tone sharper than it might otherwise have been. Her shrouded form didn’t show signs of pregnancy, Moira deduced she had given birth already; there had been plenty of time. 

Morrigan swept the hood back off her face, “I look in on you from time to time. I do miss you, Moira. I even miss that buffoon behind you upon occasion. I would have spared you both this. Why won’t he just tell them what happened?”

“We trust you, Morrigan. Or at least, I trust you. I trust you to do the right thing with his child and not take it over as your mother planned on for you. Neither one of us want to trust that in the next Blight someone less scrupulous than even you gets their hands on a god child, or whatever that baby will turn out to be,” Moira told her.

Morrigan nodded, “I understand your position, then. I do not agree with it, but I understand it. Both of you are always doing the right thing instead of the smart thing,” she smiled to take the sting out of her words, a much more diplomatic action than the Morrigan who’d first met Moira in the swamp would have attempted.

Moira turned slightly to look at Alistair over her shoulder, “What have they done to him? He was conscious the last time I was drawn here.”

Morrigan sighed and moved to crouch down beside Alistair, “I think they’ve trapped him in the Fade. And I doubt he is dreaming of his sister this time.”

“Oh, Maker,” Moira felt light headed. “Can you help him?”

Morrigan made a frustrated noise, “I cannot. And even if I could, I will not risk it. I have an infant to care for, after all. I cannot spend hours trapped in the Fade to save a man who would not believe I was there to help him in the first place.” Morrigan straightened up to look at her friend. “I would grant the same gift to you, you realize, Moira. You gave me so much without asking for anything in return.”

Moira blinked, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“A child,” the swamp witch replied. “I know you cannot have one by normal means. At least not by this one,” she nudged Alistair with her insubstantial foot. “But I only know the ritual by which I conceived. I’m afraid I do not know how to make sure you can, I doubt you want a tainted child who will only live to be thirty.”

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose, “Why are you telling me this, Morrigan?”

“I’ve been listening in on the Wardens when I’ve checked in on my child’s father in the past few weeks. One called Fiona is only a Grey Warden in name,” Morrigan looked at Moira and grinned, “It is rather disturbing how much you resemble her, you know.”

“Why?” Moira asked, her eyes automatically going back to Alistair.

“You’ll see,” Morrigan said, cryptically. “I must be going, the child is hungry.”

“How is he? The baby?” Moira asked, still looking at the father of that baby.

“The child is well, Moira. And a good child, as children go.” With that, Morrigan faded from Moira’s sight. The elf mage tried once again to touch the man she loved, but her fingers passed through him. She felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her. A voice called her name.

She opened her eyes to see Zevran’s hazel eyes inches from hers, and realized her cheeks were wet and her lashes spiky with tears. She pushed the other elf away so she could sit up and dry her eyes. 

He turned her face toward him, his fingertips gentle on her chin. “Are you all right, my Warden?”

Sniffling, Moira met his eyes, building up the walls that helped her keep the pain of missing Alistair buried inside. “I’m all right, just . . . go to sleep. I need to be alone.” She left the tent, tears still spilling involuntarily from her eyes. 

She spent the next three hours on watch, tears streaming freely from her eyes, her Mabari at her feet, trying to comfort her. An hour past dawn, she managed to get her emotions under control. She was trying very hard not to be angry at Morrigan, after all, the witch’s bargain saved both their lives and let them work to make the country stronger. She hadn’t started working on recruiting new Wardens, however. She hadn’t figured out how she could recruit new brothers and sisters without being completely honest, or she could swallow her morals and recruit as Duncan had done, as the Legion of the Dead do, but that would leave her with a band of criminals instead of the knights in shining armor for which Alistair still hoped. But that was a problem for after Weisshaupt.

The two men woke up and they broke camp and got back into armor to continue heading west toward Tevinter. They ate bread and cheese as they walked, Moira more driven than ever to get through the intervening distance to the king.

She was forced to call a halt for lunch, however. Her head was pounding and the little sleep she’d managed to get hadn’t been restful. Spending time in the Fade was not like sleeping; the mage often woke up more tired than when they originally fell asleep. They stopped some ways off the road in another copse of trees. So far, the land had just been uninteresting plains, dotted with the occasional farms. The trees were sparse and stunted things, but they provided shade from the increasingly merciless sun. As they left behind the temperate coastline however, the nights got colder and the sun, though bright, wasn’t quite as warm. It wasn’t summer, yet. 

Moira collapsed on a fallen log, tugging on the neckline of her breast plate. “I can’t decide if it would be easier to carry this stuff or keep wearing it,” she complained. 

Cullen shrugged, “It doesn’t weigh that much.” He chewed on a piece of dried meat.

“You’re not using magic to be able to walk in it. By the Maker, I miss Bodahn!” she laughed. 

Zevran replied in a perfect parody of Sandal, “Enchantment!” His expression turning serious, he told her, “What we need are horses. It won’t be long before we reach The Hundred Pillars.”

Moira nodded and started to ask about the chances of finding buyable horses, when Cullen asked, “The Hundred Pillars?”

The Antivan nodded, “A mountain range that separates Antiva from the Tevinter Imperium and Nevara. They’re not quite as formidable as your Frostback Mountains in Ferelden, but they are daunting.” 

Moira swallowed the cheese in mouth and asked, “Where are we going to find horses?”

Zevran grinned at her, positively predatory, “From the Crows, of course.”

~*~

Moira lay flat in the tall grass watching the buildings of the farm the Crows used for messengers to change horses. But, she supposed, for the Crows hiding in plain sight was the best place to be. If, in fact, the Crows were hiding their activities here. They did rule Antiva in all but name, after all. She saw Zevran creep stealthily along the side of the barn, moving quietly so as not to panic the horses. She didn’t look forward to the trial by fire of learning to ride. She didn’t think Cullen had more experience than she, however, so that should prove entertaining. 

At the thought of the Grey Warden recruit, she glanced over to where he lay in the grass near her, the Mabari between them. His brown eyes were fixed on her, not Zevran, with an expression in them that made her groan inwardly. Perrin would not be leaving her side until they got Alistair that was certain. She looked back, her eyes finding Zevran quickly. She had no doubt she could deal with Cullen, should he pose a threat to her, but the idea was to prevent him from threatening her in the first place. She would kill him if she had to. She saw Zevran motion and she crawled forward, trying to keep her armor silent. She was relieved when the Antivan gestured for them to stand up. 

When she reached the elf, he put his finger to his lips and motioned for her and Cullen to follow him. “Tell Perrin to stay here, my dear Moira,” Zevran requested in a nearly inaudible whisper. “His scent will scare the horses.” She motioned for Perrin to stay and the Mabari dropped to his belly with a distinctly unhappy look on his canine face. 

It took a moment for her eyes to get used to the dimness of the barn. The stench of manure, hay, old and new, and well-oiled leather suffused the wide space making her nose wrinkle at the unpleasant combination. Horses stamped their feet and whickered greetings to the scent of human and elf. Zev leaned close to Moira’s ear and whispered, “I will liberate four horses and their saddles. You and Cullen release the rest and then use your prodigious pyrotechnic talents, my Warden.” He winked at her. 

Moira looked at him, wide eyed. “You want me to blow up the barn?” She whispered back.

“Si, mi cara.” There was definitely a twinkle of amusement in his eye. 

“Then help me out of this armor if I’m going to try to sneak away after launching a fireball as a distraction,” she told him. “I won’t have the energy to use magic and wear this armor.” 

The armor came off quickly and she stepped into one of the empty stalls to throw on her mage’s robes. When she came out, her armor was already strapped to the saddle of one of the four horses Zevran led by its reigns. She handed him her leathers, her pack and her swords, but took her staff. He quickly tied up her belongings with her armor and led the horses out. 

Cullen had already begun opening the stalls. Some of the horses bolted right away, others they had to lead out and slap on the hind quarters to get them moving. Moira checked the barn one last time to make sure there were no more living things in it. She even climbed up into the hayloft to check. All she found were some kittens and a nursing brown tabby mother cat who hissed at her. “Great, how am I supposed to rescue you?” 

She cast around for something to carry the feline family in and ignored Cullen’s hissed, “Moira! Let’s get out of here!”

She ignored Cullen, though she knew she was going to have to talk to him about using her name, and finally found a sack. She grabbed the mother cat by the nape of her neck too quickly for the cat to react, thankful for those Grey Warden reflexes, and grabbed each kitten and shoved all six in with their mother. Moira slid down the ladder; glad she’d also put on her boots and gloves. “What in the Maker’s name were you doing up there?” Cullen demanded, grabbing her arm.

Moira froze in her tracks and just looked at him, “Remove your hand before I take it off at your neck.” Cullen released her, quickly, his face turning pale. “Go find Zevran.” He looked like he was going to protest, “That’s an order!” The ex-Templar took off at a run. She whistled loudly, calling Perrin.

Moira looked at the bag of cats, wondering what she was going to do with them. She shrugged and called up her energy and will and from the Fade came a giant fireball hurtling toward the barn. The few horses still milling about the place, squealed and took off at a run. Shouts came from the other buildings and a few men and women sprinted from them heading for the barn. Moira gathered up her bag of cats cradling it in her arms and set off at a run for where she last saw Zevran, her staff bouncing against her backside. Perrin met up with her after running full out away from the burning barn.

She reached the spot to where Zevran had disappeared. He and the ex-Templar were nowhere to be seen. She crept further into the treeline of one of the small wooded areas that were becoming more and more common as they approached the Hundred Pillars. She neither saw nor heard anything, not even the metallic clink of Cullen’s armor. A hand went around her mouth and an arm around her waist and she felt herself pulled against someone. She nearly screamed until she realized who the familiar body belonged to. She relaxed against Zevran and turned toward him, which was a mistake; her mouth was less than an inch away from his and she felt her body respond with the need to kiss him. They both froze, his trademark half smile appearing as she tensed again, her face heating, her body trembling. He didn’t release her. His hazel eyes bore into hers and the hand he’d had on her mouth still curving around her jaw, the leather of his gloves soft on her face. 

Cullen came crashing through the underbrush leading the horses. The two elves sprang apart, neither looking at the other. Moira saw Zevran give the ex-Templar a dirty look. “What?” Cullen demanded.

Instead of answering, Zevran asked, “Do either of you know how to ride?”

Cullen answered in the affirmative, much to Moira’s surprise, “They recently started teaching us at the Tower, in case we had to run messages to Denerim and it’s faster to hunt mages. “

They both looked at Moira. “What? I haven’t a clue. Alistair meant to teach me, but he never got around to it.” 

Zevran grinned, leering slightly at her, “As we haven’t time to teach you now, either. You’re in front of me.” 

Moira raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Zevran winked, “But of course, my dear Warden.” He frowned at the sack she was carrying. “What is that?”

Moira turned red again, “I rescued some cats from the barn before I blew it up.”

As he mounted his horse, Cullen said scathingly, “The ruthless Grey Warden mage had to rescue a barn cat?” he threw the reigns of one to Zevran. 

She glared at him, “Shut up.” 

Zevran made a sound that resembled a laugh strangled in its infancy. He put up his hands in surrender when her glared turned to him, “Don’t glare at me so, _cara mia_. I think it is adorable.” He took the sack from Moira and handed it to Cullen, “Hold this.” He came back and helped her climb up on the horse. Was it her imagination or did his hand linger a little too long on her rear end before sliding down to her bare thigh and pulling away? Gracelessly she adjusted herself, pulling at her hemline to keep from flashing the two men. Zevran handed her the sack of cats back, then effortlessly swung up in the saddle behind her. She was suddenly very much aware of how close she had to be to him to ride with him. His arm snaked around her and pulled her closer. He nudged his horse forward and let it pick its way through the underbrush. Cullen turned his horse and their two spares and followed the elves.

“I suggest that from here on out, Cullen is our master and I his bodyguard,” Zevran said, speaking close enough to her ear to give her shivers down her spine, his voice pitched for her only. She resisted the urge to writhe against him. 

“Wait, wouldn’t that make me his servant?” She demanded as soon as her nervous system stopped turning her to jelly. 

“Unfortunately, yes. But I am certain you can convince him to not abuse his imaginary position.” His voice was still so very close to her ear. She suppressed the urge again.

“Then won’t I have to ride with him?” she turned her head slightly to get her ear away from Zevran’s mouth.

“You’re a very rebellious servant, my dear. You’re being punished,” she scowled at him and he grinned impishly.

They made camp that night near another farmhold. Moira snuck the cats into the barn and the rather indignant mother cat hissed at Moira and began hauling her kittens somewhere safe, their tiny forms hanging limply from her jaws. She rejoined the men only to have them both choke on their laughter. She had to admit even Alistair would have laughed at her for that.


	16. Chapter 16

The mountains were beginning to loom in the distance as they traveled. Moira was not looking forward to traversing them, even if Zevran claimed there was a pass near the southern reach of the range. It would take them nearly a week to cross them as it was. 

At the foot of the pass when they finally reached it, they found a small village nestled in the valley before the ascent. The small village lay in a bowl-shaped dale with one main road creeping through it running parallel to a sleepy stream fed from a waterfall on the far side. They could see the white dots of sheep roaming the hillsides from where they stood. The tiny specks of villagers going about their daily lives gave movement to the landscape. A watermill perched on the stream turning lazily. Small farms rendered most of the valley into a patchwork quilt of agriculture.

“Now doesn’t this look familiar,” Moira told Zevran as they paused on the hill overlooking the picturesque valley, the horses breathing heavily in the humid air. Cullen sat his horse next to theirs, the reigns of the animal they were using as a pack horse in one hand. The Mabari sat on his haunches, panting. The weather had definitely been getting warmer as spring matured into summer. Moira wished she could wear her mage robes on horseback since they were cooler than her grey woolen trousers and black tunic.

“I shall keep an eye out for sacrificial altars and male priests, _cara mia_ ,” Zevran told her, his voice amused.

“What are you talking about?” Cullen asked, as his horse sidled nervously. The roan gelding seemed to be eager to keep moving.

“A small town we visited during the Blight. Beautiful mountain village. Pretty lakefront cottages. Inbred locals. A dragon cult,” Moira replied, watching the tiny specks of the villagers.

“It was a lovely little town, perfect place to retire.” Zevran’s voice was laced with irony.

“And we have to go through this place?” Cullen asked, looking down at the village.

“It is the quickest way to the pass,” Zevran replied and Moira felt him shrug. “Besides, we need supplies and I could use a decent night’s sleep in an inn with a real bed; at least as much of a real bed as we will get in this village.” 

“Do you think we’ll need to use the cover story we discussed, Zev?” Moira asked, turning her head toward the elf. She’d gotten used to riding with him. It was beginning to feel normal to be pressed up against the assassin. She really didn’t want to use that cover story. Being even a pretend servant to Cullen would just make her relationship that much worse with the ex-Templar.

He frowned at her question, “I think we would have more trouble with the Crows in a city, but it is probably best we cloud the trail a little. However, a human, two elves and a Mabari are an odd enough combination that we will attract attention no matter what.”

Moira faced forward again, “But if we go in and announce ourselves as a Grey Warden and her associates, we’ll probably be asked to solve everyone’s problem from a dishonest merchant to sheep stealing.”

“Would that be so bad?” Cullen asked.

Moira rolled her eyes, “I like helping people, Cullen, but sometimes you get asked to do the stupidest things that people could take care of by themselves if they just thought about it a bit.”

“Grey Wardens become a crutch for people trying to solve problems, my dear Templar,” Zevran said, agreeing with her. “During the Blight, we helped who we could because it was the more expedient fashion in which to strengthen Ferelden to withstand the Darkspawn.”

“But there are no Darkspawn and no Blight,” Cullen said, nodding in understanding. “We might weaken them by solving their minor problems. I see. And if there are major problems?”

“We’ll see,” Moira told him. “Keep in mind, the longer we delay, the longer Alistair is a prisoner.” Cullen snorted and muttered something. Taking a deep breath, Moira decided to ignore her recruit’s muttering. She could feel Zevran tense in anger, though. She reached behind her and patted his leg. He remained tense but kept silent and started down the hill toward the village.

They had apparently been spotted on their way in as villagers seemed to drop whatever they were doing to stare at the travelers. Unlike Haven, however, the children rushed out to see them and chase each other in their wake. The playing children made Moira’s eyes well up and she quickly rubbed them to dash away any sign of tears. She’d never really thought about having children growing up. It wasn’t something a mage was encouraged to do. When she was in her teens one of her classmates had gotten pregnant by an older mage. He’d been devastated, she remembered. The girl had been ecstatic, giggling and laughing and planning with her friends, including picking out names. When she came to term, Moira found out why her classmate’s lover had been so upset. Not two minutes after giving birth, the baby was whisked away from its mother. Moira’s classmate never even got to hold it or find out the gender and sank into a deep depression where she was eventually made Tranquil. When Wynne had related similar story to Alistair, Moira hadn’t been surprised at the outcome, just that her friend hadn’t taken the appropriate precautions. Mages were not allowed to parent.

But when Moira was freed from the Tower by becoming a Grey Warden and then fell in love, she’d allowed herself to hope, only to have it dashed by an actual physical barrier to having a child with the man she loved. And now, children and babies just hurt in unguarded moments. Moira knew she distanced herself from children because she knew she could never have one. She turned her attention back to the road ahead, wrestling her sorrow back under control.

~*~

Zevran knew Moira was watching the children and his heart ached for her. He knew how much she wanted a child. But the children didn’t distract him from the glares of the adults. They had dropped everything to watch the travelers approach, but made no other welcoming gesture. It was a good sign, though, that they didn’t order their children away from them. He caught Cullen’s eye and the recruit nodded, he’d caught the semi-unfriendly stares, also. Silently the two men walked the horses to what looked like the town’s only inn, The Shepherd. Zevran dismounted then helped Moira down, too. He knew he would eventually have to teach her to ride, but he was enjoying her sitting in front of him and holding on to her all day. She stood looking up at the inn’s sign, her small hands on her hips. “What are the chances of us getting a bath, here, I wonder?” She looked at the two of them pointedly, “You could both use a bath.” The Mabari barked in laughter and she looked down at him, “You, too.” He ducked his stub of a tail and whined.

Zevran weighed several lewd responses, but contented himself with merely shaking his head at her, well aware of the larger man beside him. The assassin was getting tired of guarding his tongue, but he had to admit if the ex-Templar hadn’t been there, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have betrayed Alistair with Moira already. His imagination very helpfully supplied him with a near-physical memory of their one night together again. He busied himself untying their packs and armor from the horses as Moira went in to inquire about rooms. 

By the time she came back out, he and Cullen had everything ready to bring inside. “They have two rooms. I’ve asked for baths, they’ll be ready in an hour. The town’s name is Ember.” Her tone was clipped and angry.

“What’s wrong, my dear Moira?” Zevran aked.

She glared, “I had to say my master needed the rooms for the night for himself, his servant, his bodyguard and his dog, and room in the stable for his four horses.” She said the word master as if it were the foulest thing she’d ever spoken. Moira may never have been a slave, but mages knew no more freedom than a slave did. And to have to pretend to be Cullen’s possession, an ex-Templar at that and one who used to be her watcher, was galling. But it was the only thing that others would believe. It probably didn’t help that the wool tunic and trousers she wore dwarfed her and made her look like a little girl, either. The tailor in Antiva City apparently made sure the pants would stay on and the hem of the trousers not drag on the ground, but either he didn’t have time, or Moira hadn’t made time, to make the rest of the clothes fit better. The ill-fitting clothes didn’t detract from her beauty, in Zevran’s opinion, they just added to her air of fragility.

“Then we’re going to have to discuss the sleeping arrangements,” Zevran said, picking up his pack. “Let us go to our rooms, where it’s private.” Reluctantly, Moira nodded and picked up her own belongings and Cullen’s pack, too. Both elves stood looking at the Templar until he got the hint and preceded them into the inn with Perrin at his heels as Moira silently directed the dog.

The innkeeper was an emaciated and wizened man. Cullen adopted an air of arrogance and looked down his nose at the old man, nodding at the innkeeper’s reassurances that everything would be to the obviously important and wealthy man’s liking. Zevran took note of how many tables in the common room (five) and how many barmaids there were cleaning them (two) and how many exits he could see (three not counting the stairs). The old man led them upstairs and unlocked both rooms for them, handing the key to Cullen. His arrogant act still in place, he just walked into the room, ignoring the subtly outstretched hand of the innkeeper. Zevran, bringing up the rear, dropped five coppers in it and closed the door on the innkeeper. He listened for the old man to go back downstairs, holding his hand up to his friends for silence. When he heard no more noises to indicate the old man was listening in, he peeked out to be certain then closed the door. He turned to find Moira and Cullen glaring at each other.

“You son of a bitch, you’re enjoying this!” She accused, her voice low.

“Now, wait a minute! I’ve said no such thing!” He hissed back.

Zevran leaned against the door, his arms crossed. It was probably best to let the two of them settle this right now, rather than later.

She stepped closer to Cullen, jabbing her finger at his armored chest, “You take ONE inch of advantage, Cullen, and you’ll find out how I killed the archdemon first hand.”

Cullen grabbed her hand, “Whatever you think of me, Moira, know this. You as my servant is not something I have ever wanted.” Strangely, he sounded sincere. Zevran looked at the younger man closely. He was upset, but why?

She yanked her hand out of his grasp, “Oh, really?”

Cullen tugged on the neckline of his armor; they both seemed to have forgotten Zevran was there. “I admit I blamed you for everything I was feeling. And I still do, a little. You are still a walking temptation for me.” Zevran had to admit the truth to those words, she was every bit one. But the difference between the assassin and the former Templar was that the assassin had never seen it as her fault. She opened her mouth to say something, but Cullen held up his hand for her to let him speak. “I know it’s not your fault that the Maker made me weak enough to fall in love with someone I was supposed to protect and someone I wasn’t supposed to consider a person. But you are and I have. Isabella pointed this out to me quite often in the time I was with her.” He stepped closer to her until she was forced to look up at him. Silently, Zevran set down his pack, ready to attack the man. “I have never wanted to own you. Keep you safe locked up in the Tower, yes, so I could watch you. But the Cleansing pointed out to me that not even the Tower is safe.”

She took a step back and glanced at Zevran. The assassin saw the calculation in her eyes, the threat assessment she always made and was relieved she hadn’t reverted to that ingrained submissive mage behavior when confronted by an angry Templar. Alistair had at least taught her that much.

She held up one slender finger, “First: Back up.” He complied as a second finger stood alongside its fellow, “Second: You can’t possibly love me, you don’t know me.” A third finger, “Third: I’m glad you had that time with Isabella, and I’m glad that against your training, you consider me a person.” Her tone was wry and she held up her fourth finger, “Fourth: I will never be anyone’s prisoner again.” Her thumb stood out, “Fifth: Love is never a weakness.” She spun on her heel and barged past Zevran to leave the room, the Mabari following her at the snap of her fingers. Zevran heard her voice asking where she could bathe the dog on her “master’s” orders. He glanced back at Cullen and found himself disturbed by the look on the man’s face. Longing, covetousness, anger and hatred warred on the handsome man’s face.

He glared at Cullen, “Just stay away from her.” He turned to follow after Moira, leaving Cullen to sit on the single bed in the room with his head on his hands.

It didn’t take long to find Moira, the innkeeper directed him to the rear of the building where permanent baths had been built. Zevran was moderately impressed, unless, of course they were for the use of the whole town, in which case he hoped they were cleaned often. He paused in the doorway and watched his friend. Because, no matter how else he felt about her, her friendship was far more precious. 

She had put the dog in the bathtub and was lathering the soap into its fur. She had been careful to arrange herself so she could see the door, but was concentrating on the dog at the moment. He cleared his throat, “I do not think I have ever been so jealous of that dog in my life.”

Moira looked up and laughed, “You’re jealous you’re not going to smell like all of Ferelden the rest of the day?”

He put his hand to his heart, “You wound me, _cara mia_.”


	17. Chapter 17

They only stayed the night in the village of Ember. Bathed, refreshed and resupplied, they crossed the Hundred Pillars. The pass did make traversing the range faster and easier than it otherwise might have been, but the trek was still arduous enough they didn’t camp for long stretches of time, eager to cover as much ground as possible and leave the mountains. They remained entirely unaccosted, even by wildlife, though Moira credited the Mabari’s tendency to mark his territory scrupulously and obsessively for that fact. They stopped for a longer rest after the journey through the mountains and Zevran recommended heading for a town called Perivantium in the southern part of the Imperium for another resupply. 

Moira checked their lyrium that night and realized they were beginning to get fairly low. She hadn’t had to use too much, but even with slowly weaning Cullen off the stuff, their supply was dwindling. 

At this night’s stop, Zevran had decided to go back to Cullen’s training, declaring there were still too many holes in the other man’s shield technique. Moira wondered if she should be disturbed by the assassin’s making decisions for their group. After all, she was supposed to be the Warden Commander. But she found she just didn’t have the strength or the desire to point out that she was supposed to be the leader. She was beginning to feel numb, the prolonged worry about Alistair and her frequent unproductive Fade visits to him were wearing on her. 

As she watched the two practice, Zevran stopped the swordplay to point out a flaw in Cullen’s defense. She’d never have thought when she’d first met the assassin that he’d have become such a huge part of her life.

_The ambush had been rather transparent, but she and Alistair had been trying to do the right thing, so they’d given the young female decoy the benefit of the doubt. They’d rounded the bend into the trap Zevran had set for them, his heavily accented voice shouting, “The Grey Warden dies here!”_

_Alistair glanced at her while drawing his sword, “Apparently, he can’t count.” Moira laughed, her adrenaline elevating and giving her the intense awareness of her companions she was slowly getting used to. After the fight, she, Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan had approached the body of the elf who had spoken._

_The blond elf pushed himself up on his elbows, but went no further when the tip of Alistair’s blade touched his throat. He blinked heavily lashed hazel eyes and allowed them to follow the blade of the sword up the hilt to its owner and then from Alistair’s stony expression over to her face. His eyes widened in surprise, travelling from her face to her feet and back up, “Mmm…Oh…I rather thought I would wake up dead, or not wake up at all as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”_

_Moira crossed her arms, “That could be easily rectified.”_

_The assassin blinked, lazily, the eyelashes making dark half moons against his tanned skin. He met her eyes again. She felt something quite a bit lower than her heart react to his forward gaze. “Of that I have no doubt. You are most skilled. If you haven’t killed me however, you must have kept me alive for some purpose, yes? My name is Zevran - Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”_

_“Who hired you to kill us?” Moira demanded. She put her hand on Alistair’s arm to get him to move the sword away for the moment. She was unable to take her eyes off Zevran. She hadn’t met many elves since leaving the Tower, and certainly none of them were gutsy enough, or suicidal enough, to flirt with her while the big Templar at her side held them at sword point._

_“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital; Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it.” Why did she think he was undressing her with his eyes?_

_“Does that mean you are loyal to Loghain?” Moira asked. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice, despite the fact that he was making her increasingly uncomfortable and incredibly aware of being a woman._

_“I have no idea what his issues are with you. The usual I imagine – you threaten his power, yes? Beyond that no, I am not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.” Alistair grunted beside her, and crossed his arms. She could almost sense her friend’s impatience._

_“And now that you’ve failed that service?” Moira asked, her eyebrow raised._

_“Well, that’s between Loghain and the Crows, and the Crows and myself. Now, unless you are quite stuck on cutting my throat, or something equally gruesome, perhaps you’d care to hear a proposal?” He still hadn’t moved from his reclining position. Whether it was in some fashion to point out his assets, he did have beautiful eyes and a great set of shoulders, after all, or out of concern for making her heavily armed friends aggressive, she couldn’t say._

_“You tried to kill me!” She told him._

_“Unsuccessfully! Besides, someone in your position can’t take these things so personally, can you?” His eyes were still disconcertingly fixed on her face while still seeming as if he were imagining her naked._

_“I’m listening,” Moira told him, trying to maintain her tough posture. She didn’t really think it was fooling anyone, she knew she was about as intimidating as a field mouse._

_“Well, since I failed to kill you, my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. The Crows will kill me. That is the way it is. The thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So, let me serve you instead. ” The assassin somehow managed to bow with a flourish from his stretched out position._

_“You must think I’m royally stupid.” Moira said, narrowing her eyes at him. Andraste’s Ass, what was wrong with her that he was making her nervous and not in an I-just-tried-to-kill-you-way?_

_"I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess." Moira’s eyes widened at the blatant attempt to flirt. Was he really going to try for that obvious?_

_“And what could you offer me?” She kept her voice neutral, it was harder than it seemed. She felt like she was trying to navigate the rapids of the River Dane without a boat, or break a horse to saddle._

_“Well, I am skilled at many things, from fighting, to picking locks, to stealth. I could also warn you if the Crows should decide to try something more… sophisticated, now that my attempts have failed. I could also stand around and look pretty if you prefer. Warm your bed, or fend off unwanted suitors, no?” His eyes flicked to Alistair’s face before being locked on hers again, direct and definitely unsubtle._

_“Bed warming might be nice,” the reply came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She felt herself turn completely red from her chest to her forehead and heard Alistair’s strangled gasp beside her, and Morrigan’s snort and Leliana’s laugh of delight behind her._

_“See? I knew we could find a common interest. Or two, or three. Really, I could go all night.” The incorrigible elf winked at her. “So, what shall it be? I’ll even shine armor. You won’t find a better deal, I promise!”_

_“Very well, I accept your offer,” Moira said, holding out her hand to help him up._

_Zevran accepted her hand to stand up. His grip was warm and solid, his fingers long and flexible. He refused to release her hand at first, holding it in both of his and getting down on one knee and looking up at her through that fringe of lashes, “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear.” He kissed the back of her hand to seal his promise. Electricity shot through her arm and down her spine at the touch of those full lips._

_And then, Alistair had picked a fight there, and again later in camp, over allowing the assassin to join them. Arguing with Alistair as always made everyone fade into the background and left her with the feeling that it was only her and him against the world and each other. In order to argue about her choices in privacy they’d always gone a ways away from camp. This time, he’d grabbed her arm and hauled her away from their camp, ignoring their companions’ curious stares._

_Reaching a clearing, he’d released her and run his fingers through his hair, bending slightly to get in her face, “I can’t believe you allowed that – that criminal! To join us! How will you even be able to sleep at night, knowing he’s right there waiting to kill you!”_

_She’d crossed her arms and stood her ground, her feet planted, “What, are you not up to the task of protecting me?”_

_His blue eyes widened and he threw his hands up in the air and stepped back, “I’m trying to be serious, here!”_

_It was her turn to get in his face, or try to, given their height difference. She stepped forward and poked his armored chest with her forefinger, “So am I! The only people I absolutely trust in this camp are you and Wynne! Morrigan only looks out for herself, Sten doubts our competence, Leliana could decide to leave us because of another vision! What’s one more untrustworthy soul! At least this one gave me his word!”_

_His eyes narrowed her, making her heart race. He closed the scant distance between them, not quite touching her, she looked up at him her eyes wide, trembling in anticipation of something she couldn’t identify. “Is that all it takes, a man’s word?” He mimicked Zevran’s pose from earlier, and said, his voice low and steady, “I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation... this I swear.” But instead of kissing the back of her hand, he met her eyes and turned her hand over to kiss her palm, slowly, letting the tip of his tongue touch her skin between his parted lips. She felt goosebumps break out all over her and her legs tremble; the top of her head felt like it was going to fly off into the night sky. She was unable to stop herself from imagining those wonderful lips of his on other parts of her and she stared into his eyes as he kissed her palm feeling as if every nerve ending were on fire and pointing directly at him._

_Then, as suddenly as he’d given her that oath, he’d dropped her hand as if it scalded him and backed away, “I-I I’m sorry! I don’t know what came over me! Please forgive me!” He spun and nearly ran from her, walking quickly into the darkness. She’d stood there, astonished, unable to do anything but stare after him until Leliana had come to find her to say dinner was ready._

Several days later, he’d given her that rose, that silly little rose that now lay pressed at the bottom of one of her wardrobes in Denerim, after another one of their arguments. 

But she’d still gone to Zevran’s tent first, eventually, entirely uncomfortable about her feelings for both men but especially about Alistair. After every advance, the awkward prince had immediately backed off, apologizing. She hadn’t intended to proposition the Antivan, but when he’d offered the massage, she’d glanced at Alistair animatedly telling a story to Leliana and took the assassin’s offered hand and let him lead her away.

Bringing her out of her reverie, the Antivan dropped to her side where she sat by the fire, winded and sweating from his work out with the ex-Templar. “Copper for your thoughts, my Warden?” 

To her astonishment, she realized her cheeks were wet and she quickly wiped them, her hand shaking, “I can’t – I don’t want to talk about it.” 

The expression of concern on Zev’s face didn’t waiver. He brushed a lock of hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear. “It’s late, you should get some rest. We’ll try to reach Perivantium by nightfall tomorrow.” 

Jerking her head away from his concerned touch, she nodded and crawled into her tent, tears still coming from her eyes. Her Mabari crawled in with her, curling up at her feet.


	18. Chapter 18

Perivantium was beautiful, on the surface. Almost every building sported a marble façade and every other of those buildings were topped with a towering golden dome and spire, winking and sparkling in the fading light of sunset. But refuse and trash and beggars littered the corners and the alleys between buildings, as if the people had tried to hide that ugly underside of their town. Even this close to sun down, though, the city was still teaming with busy people each one so very concerned with their own lives and their own business. 

Zevran still held Moira before him on the horse, trying not to get too wrapped up in how it felt to hold her. He really needed to teach her how to ride a horse, especially if they wanted to travel faster.   
She no longer reminded him of Rinna, but he was certain every woman he ever met in the future would be compared to Moira. He briefly allowed himself the luxury of burying his nose in her raven black hair that hung loose down her back between them. After days on the road, he still hadn’t figured out how she got her hair to smell like cinnamon and roses.

He turned down a side street, heading for the stables he remembered from the last time he’d been here on a contract. It seemed like a lifetime ago, another man entirely. “I wonder if we’ll see Wynne or Shale? Do you think Shale’s fixed already?” Moira asked quietly, turning her head toward him. 

He shrugged and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, “We will be going to an inn I recommended to them. I told them not to mention me, of course. But it should have fewer bedbugs than most in Perivantium. But first, we will need to stable the horses.”

“I guess horses aren’t common enough for inns to invest in the space,” Moira said, thinking aloud.

“That makes sense,” Cullen interjected from beside them. His riding had improved greatly since they’d gotten the horses, and he held the reigns of the horse he was riding with one hand while holding the reigns of the two spares with the other.

The rest of the short ride to the stables was quiet. Zevran felt very little like talking. That point between his shoulder blades was itching again, they were being watched. He whispered in Moira’s ear, hiding his mouth in her hair, “Someone’s been following us since we entered the city.” She nodded and sat up straighter, leaning away from him. He ignored the sudden chill from her absence, reminding himself she’d be back to leaning against him when the danger was past. He scanned the area as cautiously as he could, but who ever was following them was very good at it.

They reached the stables and he dismounted. He helped Moira down as Cullen dismounted. Perrin trotted over to flop down at Moira’s feet, tongue lolling. He saw Moira surreptitiously look around then shrug and heard her tell Cullen they were being watched. For once the young man didn’t do anything other than nod and look around as unobtrusively as Moira had done. 

It took only a few moments to arrange to board the horses and store the saddles. It took slightly longer for Moira to change into her armor and tie her hair up. She glanced at him where he waited for her and shrugged, “It’s better than carrying it.”

Twilight was fast approaching and he left the stables, first, checking the street, the lengthening shadows and the feeling of danger making him cautious. He still couldn’t get rid of the niggling feeling they were being watched. Moira joined him and the Ferelden mage and the Antivan assassin began walking, trying to peer into every shadow and every alley they passed. He knew he was far too aware of her presence as they walked, almost to the point where she overrode every other bit of information their surroundings were giving him. The Mabari picked up their tension and stalked along ahead of Moira sniffing at everything. Zevran glanced backward at Cullen and was amused to see the ex-Templar gawking like the sheltered rube he was, but was using it to hide a much more alert watchfulness. He might be useful after all.

Zevran hated being proved right, however. Especially about the bad things. The ex-Templar shouted a warning, somehow seeing the attackers before Zevran did, leaving the assassin cursing himself for being more aware of Moira than of their surroundings as a full dozen attackers surrounded them. It wasn’t difficult, they’d turned down a relatively empty street on the way to the inn Zevran remembered. Before anyone could react, Zevran felt a cool breeze emanate out from one of the shadowy figures, and Moira started cursing, using words he’d only ever heard Oghren use. “Sodding stone, Zev, they drained me!” 

Weapons sprang to his and Cullen’s hands and a low growl started in the Mabari’s throat as Moira stood frozen, barely able to support the weight of her armor, much less draw her own weapons. Zevran moved to jump in front of her, but he was too late. One of the black clad figures stepped into the light of the torches. Zevran’s breath hissed through his teeth as he recognized the Crow. “Release her and I won’t hunt you down and kill you slowly, Azaelle.” 

The wan-faced and heavily scarred woman laughed, her wicked-edged dagger at Moira’s throat. “No, you’ll hunt me down and kill me quickly, instead, Zevran!” Zevran met Moira’s eyes and she shook her head as carefully as she could. 

“Why this game, if you’re just going to kill us, Azaelle?” He forced his eyes away from Moira’s and glared at the female Crow.

“Ah, I see Ignacio planted his seed well!” The woman roughly grabbed Moira’s hair and jerked her head back viciously. 

“What by Andraste’s ass are you talking about!” Cullen shouted from behind Zevran. The younger man stood with his back to the assassin. 

“The bounty was not to kill you, but to delay you.” One of the other Crows came forward and quickly stripped Moira of her weapons and armor while the two men stood frozen, unable to think of a way around the stalemate as long as Azaelle’s dagger was on Moira’s neck. As soon as the last greave hit the cobblestone, the assassins faded back into the shadows with their captive. 

Azaelle was right, of course, he’d been expecting an entirely different sort of attack and had not prepared for one where the object was to disable them and not kill them. It still rankled, as did the knowledge that unless he could get a handle on how he felt about his friend, he was useless to her as a body guard. The sodding boy was better for her than he was! He stared at the spot where Moira disappeared as if he could follow them with his eyes. Without looking at Cullen, he told him, “Get her things, go down this alley and take the next two rights until you get to the Inn of the Dancing Stallion. I think you know who Wynne is?” 

“Yes.”

“Tell her everything. Perrin, go with Cullen and do as he says,” Zevran looked at the Mabari. The dog growled his disagreement. Zevran crouched before the great warhound. “I will not come back without her, but you cannot come with me, my friend.” The dog whined his assent and Zevran launched himself at a silent run, folding the shadows around him and leaving Cullen to get Moira’s belongings and her dog.

~*~

Moira woke up. At first, she wasn’t sure she’d opened her eyes. She could feel herself blink, however. She was lying uncomfortably on one shoulder, her arms and fingers were growing numb as were her toes and feet. She tried to move and found she was trussed like an animal headed for slaughter. “Unfortunate phrasing, Moira,” she thought to herself. Her mouth was dry and she couldn’t close it, moving her tongue informed her of the gag they’d stuffed between her jaws. She could hear nothing. But she smelled tanned leather and it wasn’t the leather she was wearing. It was the smell of leather she associated with Zevran. 

She closed her eyes in concentration, trying to reach for the Fade to summon something to burn off the ropes, but felt nothing. It was almost as if she were Tranquil, but no, she still had her emotions intact: her heart pounded in terror. But strangely, she wasn’t afraid for herself. She was afraid for Alistair and afraid Zevran would get killed trying to save her. She needed to get herself free and not wait. She opened her eyes and found the red glare of a glyph she was unfamiliar with fading. She tried to reach for it again and the glyph flared to blinding life. She winced, her eyes closed at the sudden pain. She tried to adjust herself so she wasn’t in as quite a painful position and gave up rather than fall on her face. 

Why would the Crows be hired to delay them? What was really going on? There was too much lyrium floating about the countryside. Crows were hired to attack them. There were supposed blood mages in the Tower, again. Jowan was missing. Were the lyrium and Jowan connected? Where did the Crows fit in? Did any of this have to do with Alistair and Weisshaupt? She had nothing else to do since she really couldn’t free herself and couldn’t use her magic. With the glyph around her, she clearly could not even use the Fade to get help, either. Stuck and resigned to waiting on a rescue she prayed would come quickly, she forced herself to calm down as she mulled over the events of the past few weeks, looking for reasons why the Crows would have been brought in.

~*~

Zevran raced through the alleys, back tracking and crisscrossing the night darkened streets. There was no trail to speak of, but Zevran knew of the few safe houses the Crows used in Pervantium. He’d start with the ones he knew about and kill his way through to the ones he didn’t if he didn’t find her soon. 

The first hideout he remembered was behind one of Perivantium’s laundries. Washerwomen and errand runners were still running in and out, despite the lateness of the hour. He stood in the shadows watching for any oddities he could take advantage of. The flow of traffic didn’t seem to end, however, and time was running short the longer he hid there. Staying concealed and wrapping himself in the shadows, he crept along and around to the rear of the building. Glancing around to make sure no one was nearby enough to ambush him, he pushed the combination of bricks in the correct pattern, relieved no one had hired a mage to change them, and a secret door embedded in the brick wall hissed open as its catch was released. 

He snuck inside, unlimbering Starfang and his dagger. The secret door opened onto a narrow hallway, lit by inadequately oiled lanterns. Several doors were placed intermittently along the length of it, making the corridor ripe for ambushes. He padded down the hallway to the first door, his leather soled boots soundless on the wooden floor. He checked the gap between floor and door to see if there were any candles lit indicating occupancy. Darkness. He turned the knob and the door swung silently open. 

Zevran crept into the room as low as possible, giving as small as silhouette as he could against the dim light in the hall. He stepped back out into the hall and grabbed one of the lanterns, sheathing his dagger. He swept the lantern’s light around the room and found it uninhabited, but with several chests. Everything seemed to have a fine coating of dust. Quickly and expertly, he had the locks open and was searching through them for papers or maps to anything to show where they’d taken Moira. He also divested the trunks of any coins, a bribe might be necessary and Cullen had Moira’s purse along with all their money. He swore under his breath at not finding any clues and went on to the next room, repeating his procedure.

The final room was at the end of the hall and the door was also dark. But not unoccupied. He could hear the occasional scuff, or hiss of in-drawn breath from the room. Silently, he ran up to the door, just to the side of it just case someone was clever enough to fire a crossbow bolt through the wood. In one quick movement he kicked the door open and jumped back to peer through the doorway.

“Come in, Zevran,” a gravelly voice said from within the darkness. “I’ll tell you where you can find your mage.”


	19. Chapter 19

Zevran recognized that voice. In spite of himself, it sent a chill down the elf’s spine and for a moment he was ten years old again, trying to escape the tall, dark haired man’s notice. He set the lantern down and drew his dagger, feeling better at having both weapons in his hands and stepped into the room. The man inside lit a lantern and turned to look at Zevran where he stood in the door. “Bron Wenthai,” Zevran grated on the name, hatred making him tremble slightly before he mastered the urge to kill his former tormentor where he stood.

Bron Wenthai had been one of the trainers for the young boys in Zevran’s age group. The Crows allowed the trainers free reign to with their young charges as they saw fit, believing the harsher the training, the better the Crow. Wenthai, however, believed in rewarding those boys who were better, faster, and prettier, with extra attention. Zevran, being an elf, was prettier than most of his fellows. He was also the top of his class. Wenthai had rewarded his achievements by being especially attentive to him after sending the rest of the boys home to their quarters. One of Zevran’s regrets at leaving the Crows was that he’d never gotten to kill Bron for what he’d done. It may have made Zevran stronger, but vengeance would make him stronger still.

The tall, lean human stalked slowly in a circle around the elf, paying no attention to the naked blades in his hands. Bron had always been attractive, Zevran could admit that. Bron had broad shoulders, narrow hips, well defined muscles, dark hair that draped rakishly across his still-smooth brow. Zevran met the man’s dark eyes, defiantly. “What do you want, Bron?”

The heavily accented Rivaini voice grated on Zevran’s nerves, “What are you willing to barter for your mage, Zevran?” The man reached out and stroked Zevran’s tattoo on the side of his face.

With the hand holding his dagger, Zevran slapped his hand away. “Touch me again and I’ll kill you and find my mage my own way,” he growled.

Wenthai’s eyes widened and he laughed, “Oh, ho! Such fire! I thought we beat that out of you!” The foul man leaned closer and lowered his voice threateningly, “I thought we fucked that out of you.”

Before he could stop himself, Zevran reacted. He punched the taller man as hard as he could, sending him reeling backward. Before Wenthai could recover, Zevran was on him with a kick to the groin and another punch to the face. The man collapsed to his knees but started to recover almost instantly. Zevran was there with Starfang at his throat before Wenthai could attack in retaliation. Wenthai froze, the gleaming green blade turning his face a sickly color in the dim candlelight. “You will tell me where she is and I won’t scar that face of yours,” Zevran offered.

“You won’t hurt me, after everything we’ve been to each other.” Wenthai’s voice was confident, the expression in his eyes was not. 

Zevran slid the blade lightly along the man’s neck, crouching in front of him, enjoying it as he shuddered in fear, “I was a child. You, my tormentor. You were something to be endured. Tell me where she is, so I no longer have to endure you.”

Wenthai’s eyes tried to peer through his cheekbones to the sword poised against his neck, “She’s at the Seven Horse Hitch, the brothel by the docks.”

“I don’t believe you,” Zevran drew his dagger again and aimed it for the man’s cheekbone, ready to carve it.

“I – I swear! I give you my word as a Crow! They’re holding her there, something about needing a mage to keep a mage!” The man was trembling in terror, now. Zevran suspected it was more at the prospect of getting his pretty face ruined than of dying. 

“Very well. I will go to this Seven Horse Hitch and find my mage. You will remain tied up here. If I find out you lied, I will come and carve your lies into your pretty, pretty face,” Zevran told him, coldly. He stood up and kicked the man in the chin. Wenthai collapsed bonelessly, unconscious. Zevran found rope in the room. Undoubtedly, the Crows were counting on his supposed affection for his former teacher to lull him into being captured. As he tied up Wenthai, he spared a brief thanks to the Maker for sending him on the foolhardy mission against the Grey Wardens. And then thanked Him again for them being decent people. He extinguished the lantern after trussing Wenthai up like the nug he was and locked him in the small room.

If Moira was being held by mages, he needed Cullen. He set off at a dead run for the inn he’d sent the ex-Templar to.

~*~

Zevran rushed into the dilapidated inn. It had been in better shape the last time he’d been in Perivantium, but it didn’t matter, with any luck, they’d be out of here by morning with Moira safe and sound. He barely paused to memorize the layout of the common room as he spotted Cullen towering over someone in a dimly lit corner. Perrin noticed him first and with a whine, the great hound leapt to his feet and trotted over to Zevran. Absently, the assassin scratched the Mabari’s ears in sympathy before going over to where Cullen seemed to be arguing with someone who was sitting down.

He came up behind the taller man and heard the tail end of Cullen’s low-voiced exclamation, “—No! It’s none of your business why I need to talk to Senior Enchanter Wynne!”

The husky female voice that answered him sounded vaguely familiar to Zevran, but it wasn’t one he could place. It also seemed to be coming from near the height of Cullen’s waist. The assassin put his hand on Cullen’s shoulder to let the recruit know that he was there. Cullen jumped slightly, startled. Zevran grinned, despite his worry. It was a petty victory, but anything to bring the ex-Templar down a notch or two was always a good thing. “Where’s Wynne, we haven’t much time?” he said by way of greeting to Cullen.

The husky feminine voice replied for him, “Well, if it isn’t the painted elf! Why is it following this lyrium addled fool around?”

Zevran blinked, there’d only been one person, one thing, in all of his acquaintance that addressed people with the inanimate pronoun and called him the “painted elf.” He stared down at the voluptuous, petite, and beautiful chestnut-haired dwarf that had been arguing with Cullen and felt his heart leap into his throat. She was wearing plate armor and carried a sword nearly twice her height strapped to her back next to a heavy shield. Her dark hair was very short, trimmed close to her scalp. “Shale?” He demanded, astonished. “Wynne did it? She cured you?”

The prickly dwarf shoved the elf away, her pretty features twisting into a scowl, “By the stone, doesn’t it have better things to do? Where is she?” The short woman shoved Zevran aside as if to peer behind him.

Zevran shook his head at her, just then realizing the only person who ever got the proper pronouns from Shale had been Moira, “She’s in trouble. Cullen is a Grey Warden recruit, I sent him here to find Wynne to get both your aid, my formerly stony friend.” Shale? Mortal? His balance slid further off. 

Her huge brown eyes widened as she stared up at Zevran, “What did it allow to happen to the Warden?” Tiny fists bunched up and planted themselves on her armored hips. 

Zevran swallowed, “We were ambushed.” He didn’t look away from the accusation in the dwarf woman’s eyes. 

“And where is the other stupid one that always sought her favor? Why did it allow this?” Shale demanded, her brown eyes narrowing.

Zevran’s eyes closed in resignation, All right, let us have all of my failures out in the open, then, he thought. Opening them again he said, “He’s a prisoner in Weisshaupt. Is this really the best place to discuss all of this?”

“We leave it alone with her for less than one year, and it can’t even keep her safe THAT long?” The irascible dwarf turned and headed for the stairs to the second floor of the inn. “Well, come along then. I’m sure the elder mage will be very interested in its failures.”

That was one conversation Zevran was not looking forward to. Despite her repeated attempts to get him to speak of his past and voice some sort of regret for his actions as a Crow, he did have a great deal of respect for the formidable matronly mage. Not the least of which was the healthy fear of her ability to turn him into a toad. 

The clink of plate mail altered him to Cullen catching up with him. The Mabari paced at his other side. “Who is this person?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran caught Cullen staring at the dwarf and suppressed a chuckle. The former mage hunter was staring at the dwarf woman as if he’d just discovered air was breathable. The boy was all too readable. “That is Shale of House Cadash. The only member of her House, if I am not mistaken. She used to be a golem.”

“A what?” came Cullen’s startled reply. 

“A golem. Wynne must have found a way to release her. It’s a long story. Moira or Alistair or Shale herself should be the ones to tell it, however. I am no bard. Or perhaps Leliana can regale you with it, if she’s already set the tale to music,” Zevran tried very hard to keep the bitter tone out of his voice. Cullen was already far too privy to secrets he should not know. And far too privy to Zevran’s failures as well. 

It wasn’t a very long walk to Wynne’s room in the inn. Shale entered without knocking, but closed the door behind her, not letting the three of them in. Zevran stood with his hands behind his back, trying not to feel as if he were about to report to a Crow taskmaster. Wynne had taken on the mothering of the group when they were fighting the Blight. If Moira had been their head and their heart and their fire, Wynne had been their mother and councilor. Even his hardened emotions had found a fondness for the mothering of the “elder mage,” especially when she seemed to not take his teasing of her too seriously and realized he was merely deflecting her prying.

He only stood outside that door for a few minutes but it seemed a thousand times that long before Wynne’s voice told him to come in. When he stepped into the room, he noted it was lit by a handful of candles and contained two beds at opposite ends. Wynne sat in an overstuffed chair that from the little he could see, had seen better days. She stood up to greet him. He quickly crossed the room to embrace her and was alarmed at how much more frail she seemed. 

Wynne put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back enough to look him in the eye, “So, what trouble have Moira and Alistair gotten themselves into this time?”

“More like what trouble I’ve let them get into,” he told the white haired woman. Briefly, he summarized the events that led to them arriving at this inn.

“Let me guess,” the mage’s rich voice said, “You feel responsible.” She cupped the side of his face. 

“I – yes, I do,” he hung his head.

“Well, I could sit here and tell you it’s all going to be all right, and it wasn’t your fault,” she put her hands on her hips, looking at him steadily. “But you and I both know that will go in one ear and out the other with you.” She clapped her hands, smiling as he jumped slightly. “You are going to take Shale and that boy and rescue her.”

Zevran’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline, “I am surprised you are not offering to come, my dear Wynne.”

“I’m too old for such things, Zevran,” she told him. “I love her like a daughter, but I’m afraid I’d be in the way right now. Making Shale mortal took a lot out of me and my spirit.” She swayed on her feet, and alarmed, Zevran helped her to sit back down. “Bring them in here. You need to plan.”

The former Golem, the ex-Templar and the Mabari entered at her words. Shale stood in front of Zevran, her arms crossed, glaring at him. “Does the painted elf have a plan?”

Zevran purposely mimicked her pose, cocking his head at her, “Does the pretty one mind pretending to be the human’s ‘escort’ for the night?” 

The reaction both gave was worth the dwarf continuously calling him a painted elf. Shale sputtered in indignation, Cullen turned a violent red and began muttering words he’d no doubt picked up from Isabella’s crew. “Good, then we have a plan. The Seven Horse Hitch is an establishment of ill-repute. However, it does rent rooms to those who, shall we say, have unconventional tastes? I cannot approach since I risk being recognized by any Crows that might be in residence. I will have to get in another way.” He looked at Perrin. “You’re going to need to stay and protect Wynne, old friend. You cannot go where we will be going.” The large dog whined and lay down next to Wynne with his massive head on his paws.


	20. Chapter 20

Moira lay curled up on the floor. They’d come to untie her only to put a glyph under her for paralysis. At least she could feel her fingers and toes now, she just couldn’t move them. What she wouldn’t give for her Templar right now. She wanted to laugh at the thought, but the only thing she could seem to move was her heart, her lungs, and her eyes and eyelids. Everything else seemed frozen. Hell, she’d even welcome Cullen if he got her free. 

Her mind wandered to the first time she’d met the tall, blonde former Templar. Duncan had told her where to find him but her sense of direction had been terrible after a life time living in that Tower. She couldn’t tell East from West, North from South. So, of course, she’d gotten lost. 

_She’d run into the other two Grey Warden recruits, flirted with Daveth, got annoyed at Jory, then fed a deserter before finally finding Alistair. She’d stopped at the top of the ramp, listening to him smart off to a fellow mage, a man she recognized from the Tower and who was just plain obnoxious on a good day. Alistair’s taunting didn’t improve the Rivaini’s temperament any. When the young Grey Warden finally noticed her as the mage stormed away, she’d felt her knees turn to mush. He was gorgeous, like something out of one of those fairy tales she was always sneaking between the covers of her history books: the kind where the knights rescued the pretty princess from her tower. And then he opened his mouth, “You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”_

_She’d laughed and stammered, “I know exactly what you mean!” He’d grinned and introduced himself. He seemed so sure of himself, so confident. And funny, too. When he’d mentioned being a former Templar, however, she didn’t know whether to be suspicious of him, or glad of the near familiarity. She’d tried to ignore the tiny surge of lust that flared to life, though. She’d always thought the Templars were like the knights in her stories. She’d just never thought of herself as the princess. He’d led her back to Duncan and she found her eyes continuously glued to his rear end, watching the way he moved under his armor. When he’d turned back to see if she was still behind him, she’d wrenched her eyes away and felt her face heat. “Get control of yourself, Moira! He’s a Templar and a human! This will only end in disaster!” It was excellent advice. She never took it._

_He’d led the small group of Grey Warden recruits into the wilds. She remembered being disappointed in his taciturnity, wishing to hear him recount tales of being a Grey Warden, or just talking to her. He had a wonderful voice, after all._

A rough kick to her stomach interrupted her reverie. She couldn’t even twitch to grunt or moan in protest, nor cough to regain her air. A pair of boots stood in front of her, she couldn’t move her eyes to see more. They were brown and badly scuffed and seemed to belong to large human male feet. She watched, mentally bracing herself for the impact as one of the feet drew back to kick her in the head. A rough, Antivan accented female voice called out, “You do that, and I’ll break every bone in your foot.” She recognized the voice of Azaelle, the frightening woman who’d abducted her. The boot went back to the floor and its owner walked away.

Azaelle walked over and crouched down to nearly her eye level. “I find myself in a bit of an interesting position. You see, our employer just wanted us to hold on to you. But, apparently, word has gotten out that you’re our …. guest…. And we’ve gotten offers. A party in Denerim wants you shipped back there. Preferably dead. The Grey Wardens want you in Weisshaupt yesterday, alive. I’ve engaged them in a little bidding war, but I think you should start praying to your precious Maker that Weisshaupt has more gold than Denerim. “

The woman stood up, Moira could see her cocking her head out of the corner of her eye. “And strangely enough, they want that loathsome traitorous elf who follows you about like a kicked dog. Same conditions as you. Very odd. I guess you’re bait, my dear.”

Moira’s eyes widened, she couldn’t move to reply, or even to spit in the woman’s face. Who by Andraste’s Ass wanted her dead in Denerim, and who would even find Zevran a threat? Anora, most certainly, the canny woman probably figured that if she and Alistair were dead, Zevran would hunt her down in revenge. And why would the Grey Wardens want Zevran? Leverage against her or Alistair? But Anora should be locked up in that tower with no contact with the outside world, not to mention no money to pay a Crowe’s ransom. And no one thought Alistair and Zevran were even friends, much less close enough to be used against Alistair. Had the Wardens gotten too much information from the King in the Fade? And who had originally paid for her captivity? Moira closed her eyes to think. 

 

Zevran sat in a shadowy corner of the common room of the Seven Horse Hitch. He’d borrowed a dark grey cloak from Wynne and sat with the hood pulled up watching the room. He made sure to keep his distinctive tattoo from showing and the hood pulled over his pale hair and pointed ears. A tankard sat untouched in front of him. He watched for Cullen and Shale’s entrance, amused at the prospect in spite of his worry.

The Grey Warden recruit entered, towering over almost all the patrons in the common room; his diminutive companion completely invisible. Zevran pretended to drink from the tankard to hide his grin. Just as they rehearsed, Cullen imperiously demanded a private room for him and his wife. The expression on the proprietor’s face when he saw Shale was enough to nearly cause Zevran to inhale the liquid he was merely pretending to drink. The odd pair were without weapons and armor, pretending to be simple but wealthy merchants with a penchant for exotic locations for recreational activities. Zevran had hidden the weapons before entering the common room. After a short discussion, Cullen and Shale were led to a back room, arms around each other. 

Zevran waited several minutes and than wrapped himself in shadows to follow them. He slipped into the room they were supposed to ask for and was relieved to find that they’d gotten and he hadn’t interrupted someone else’s fun. They were strapping on the last bits of their armor. “Good, you’re almost ready. Chances are, she’s in the lowest level.”

Cullen narrowed his eyes at Zevran, “Chances are? You mean you’re not sure?”

Zevran glared at the larger man, “And how would I have verified this?” His amusement was gone, blown away by fury at the younger man questioning him. The worry quickly followed in the anger’s wake, though, blunting the edge of the rage.

Shale stepped forward, “We all want her safe. Keep it in your pants.” 

Zevran looked both of them over. “Try to move quietly. We are in the back of the building, but I’d prefer not to have to fight our way through servants and customers.” Strangely, the hallway was deserted as they crept along it. The occasional shout of passion or moan of pleasure reached their ears and Zevran was amused to look back and see both Cullen and Shale turning red. They reached the servant’s staircase in the back of the building. The lack of foot traffic was setting off alarm bells in Zevran’s head. He stopped and pressed himself against the wall, motioning the other two closer. 

“We’re walking into a trap,” he told them, whispering.

“No, really? Whatever gave it that idea?” Shale hissed back.

He ignored her and looked at Cullen, “The minute you see Moira, you’ll have to Cleanse the area. She’s likely held immobile by a spell or three.” Cullen nodded. “Shale and I will see to it you get to her. Once she’s free, we’ll be able to fight our way out.”

“That’s the best plan I’ve heard it come up with all night,” Shale said, unlimbering her sword. The two men also drew their blades. Zevran continued to lead the way down the stairs.

 

From her vantage point in the middle of the room, Moira could see a ring of boots surrounding her. At least, she assumed they were surrounding her. She couldn’t move her head yet to check. The mage holding the spell in place was over in one of the far corners of the large cellar. Azaelle had positioned herself next to Moira, just outside the range of the glyph, blades at the ready. “It looks like your elf has come for you, little one. Denerim will be glad of both your corpses.” So, Anora had won the bidding war. It had to be Anora. And she almost certainly had to be working with Eamon. They were both minor considerations, however, to getting Alistair back from Weisshaupt. Moira told herself she wasn’t really afraid of the braggart Crow who’d imprisoned her. She’d killed three dragons, after all; one Crow was a significantly smaller problem.

A body was thrown down the stairs, Cullen rushing down after it, a battle cry emanating from the ex-Templar. Oathkeeper was yanked from the corpse of the guard as he crumpled at Cullen’s feet. A small dark-haired dwarf woman followed in his wake, brandishing a sword as tall as she was. Zevran emerged from the stairway behind them, taking in the room at a glance. Moira felt her heart contract, she’d never been so glad to see anyone else in her life. “Azaelle. I believe you have something of mine,” the assassin said, Starfang glinting in the torchlight.

“Get him,” was the only reply Azaelle gave. Moira watched as Cullen began to head toward her, simply shoving opponents out of his way to get to her. Zevran and the dwarf came along behind him, killing everyone in his wake. Zevran and the dwarf seemed to move together like they’d fought beside one another before. Who was this woman? 

Cullen finally got close enough to her for him to wipe away the spell holding her in place. But before he could set off his Templar abilities, Moira felt herself burn from the inside out. She couldn’t help herself, she screamed through her closed mouth, unable to even writhe in agony as every nerve ending in her body fired at once. Through her pain and the blood pounding in her ears, she heard Zevran’s voice, “Call off your mage or you die here.” She’d never heard him sound so cold. She could feel tears leaking from her eyes, burning a path down her face. “Do it, Cullen, now!” 

Suddenly, the pain ceased, the paralysis stopped. She wanted to weep in relief, but she could feel the Blood Mage in the corner readying another spell. Zevran was standing close enough to her and his boot was within reach. Before anyone else could move, she reached up, yanked out the dagger as carefully as she could from his boot sheathe and threw it with all her magical strength at the mage in the corner. The knife blossomed from the man’s throat and he collapsed in a heap, the spell dying on his lips. Cullen grabbed Azaelle by the throat, holding her still. In one motion, Zevran sheathed his sword and spun to face Moira. 

Wordlessly, he pulled her to him, cupping her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. Moira closed her eyes as her rescuer pulled her tighter into his embrace and kissed her. Without her telling them to, her arms wound up around his neck, her fingers entwining into his hair. One of his hands traveled down her back, pulling her tight against him, the other wound itself in her hair. Her lips parted and he took the invitation, his tongue finding hers. Her senses were filled with Zevran, the satin of his hair running through her fingers, the scent of leather, steel and that indefinable smell that was only him, the taste of his lips. A fire started somewhere below her stomach and she pulled him tighter to her. He was the one who broke the kiss first, however. He leaned his forehead against hers. “Mi amora, we cannot. Not yet.” She nodded, reality crashing back down around her. Alistair still needed to be found and rescued. Then she supposed she’d have to face the fact that she could not choose between them. 

The pair parted to find that Cullen had forced Azaelle onto her knees, his sword at her throat. Zevran seemed to be reluctant to let Moira stray from his side for very long and kept his arm around her as they walked over to the defeated assassin. The blonde dwarf was systematically rifling the pockets of the dead. Moira was all too conscious of Zevran’s body alongside hers, but forced herself to focus on Azaelle. Without preamble she said, “The way I see it you have three choices. One: we kill you, perhaps more mercifully than your fellow Crows will. Two: we let you go and you take your chances against them for failing. Three: you join the Grey Wardens of Ferelden.” Zevran’s fingers tightened on her shoulder almost painfully at the last offer. Cullen glanced at her sharply as well. The dwarf just laughed. 

The scarred woman seemed to consider, “And what is entailed in the final offer?”

“You make it to Amaranthine in Ferelden alive,” Moira told her. 

“Then that is the offer I shall take,” the Antivan said. Moira nodded and gestured, casting Mind Blast to stun the woman. Turning to the dwarf, Moira asked, “And who might you be?”

The petite woman grinned, hooking her thumbs in her armor. “It shall have three guesses and the first two don’t count.” 

Moira’s eyes widened and she rushed over to the other woman and threw her arms around her, “Shale! I’m so glad to see you! How is Wynne?” 

“We don’t really have time for reunions, _mi amora_. We should leave before Azaelle wakes up,” Zevran reminded her, grasping her hand and leading her to the rear of the cellar. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to go back through the Seven Horse Hitch. I noticed the rear entrance before, it was just barred from the inside.” The four friends quickly left the house of ill-repute behind. A short discussion and Cullen and Shale were sent to get the horses. Zevran and Moira headed for Wynne.


	21. Chapter 21

They traveled quickly, the horses making good time. Moira bought two more horses before they left Peravantium. She finally got a horse to herself, Zevran riding close to her to help her control it. The dwarf rode by herself as well, taking to handling the animal quite quickly. Wynne claimed she could still ride even if it had been ages since she’d done so. As Cullen was the most heavily armored, his horse was over-worked as it was. Moira didn’t feel confident enough in her horsemanship to wear her armor, however, so she wore the leathers and linen that went under her armor while riding.

They rode as quickly as they dared, not wanting to run the horses into the ground and Wynne needed periodic rest breaks. She tired more quickly after helping Shale than she had before the Blight. Moira didn’t need to see the dwarf’s face to know she’d felt awful. One night, when Moira was watching Wynne with concern as the older woman retired early, Shale approached her. “She didn’t tell me the price when she offered to fix me.”

Moira blinked at Shale’s use of the proper pronouns for Wynne, “What was the price?”

Shale glanced grimly over at the tent Wynne had retired to, “I don’t know. But she gets weaker by the day, Warden. I don’t know how to help her.”

Moira looked down at the former golem. “Shale, I want you to know, if I can help her I will. But you might have to accept that there may be nothing I can do, as much as I hate to admit it. You may have to respect her choice and just honor her with the life she gave you.”

Shale glared up at the elven mage, “Don’t you dare tell me that, Warden!” Tears leaked from her eyes and were hastily scrubbed away. “She’s all I have left!”

Moira knelt and pulled the dwarf close to her in a hug. The woman’s small body resisted at first, then slowly hugged Moira back, clinging to the slighter mage and crying into her shoulder. “As long as I’m alive, Shale, you have a place. As long as there are Grey Wardens in Ferelden, you have a place.”

Shale pulled back to look askance at Moira, “You’re not going to recruit me, are you?”

Moira shook her head, “I don’t actually want to recruit my friends, Shale. The Joining – the odds aren’t good.”

Shale shook her head, “I know that, elf. You and that fool weren’t very quiet when you were discussing the perks of your order.”

Moira blushed and looked away, catching Zevran’s eye. The assassin was sitting near the fire, leaning on a log, grinning at them. He noticed her looking and merely looked away, raising his face to the stars. She remembered what he’d asked her when Cullen had been foisted on them. Moira hoped he understood why she would never offer the Joining to him, if Alistair would even let her.

They were back on the road the next morning, Wynne looking more energetic than she had the night before. Moira hoped they weren’t pushing the old woman too hard. She grinned as the mage nudged her horse up to Cullen to give him a hard time like she used to with Alistair. Moira wondered if it wasn’t perhaps some sort of attempt to get back at the Templars by teasing both men. 

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. The Imperial Highway was well maintained and well-patrolled through the border with the Anderfels and beyond. They ran into little traffic, and were rarely stopped by patrols. They reached the town of Val Dorma and resupplied. Moira found a map to Weisshaupt and probably paid far too much for it. If it would get them closer to the legendary fortress without wandering around the wilderness for weeks on end, it was worth the exorbitant price. 

They settled Wynn in an inn in Val Dorma, left Perrin to look after her, and stabled the horses. On foot, the motley group headed into the forest surrounding the mountains near Weisshaupt. Moira had opted to wear her armor and carry her sword and dagger, instead of her staff. If they could, they would try not to kill any Grey Wardens. They followed the map and found it to be fairly accurate, especially when they started to find patrols of Grey Wardens. The small group neatly avoided the patrols, even managing to keep the inexperienced Cullen silent in his armor.

Circling the keep, the high walls were broken into three layers of thick, impenetrable stone one on top of the other, climbing the cliff face of the rocky out crop of the mountains between the Anderfells and Tevinter, the foot hills of the Hunterthorns. From their vantage point, Moira couldn’t really see more than that it was a fortress, built to withstand long sieges with only one massive set of steel framed gates at the midpoint of the tallest wall. Pennons snapped in the stiff wind from the north, the griffon rampant on them glowing white against the black of the flag. Storm clouds were gathering over the ancient fortress. She wished she’d been able to come here for a more peaceful reason. Now, her first encounter with the only other Grey Wardens she’d ever met other than Riordan, Duncan and Alistair, would be at the point of a sword. She motioned to get her friends’ attention. “Non-lethal only. We can’t afford a Grey Warden civil war, especially while they still hold Alistair. We knock them out and tie them up.” She held their gazes until they all nodded. Zevran nodded last, and only when she glared at him.

~*~

After nightfall, they found a stream that led out from under the keep. The four snuck in under the iron bars that were raised to let the water run freely. The water was over Shale’s head, however, so Moira ordered Cullen to carry the dwarf on his back. This did nothing to help Shale’s temper. 

Moira led the way, casting Flaming Weapons and using her burning Spellweaver as a torch. The underground stream ran swiftly against them, rushing for the open skies and the moonlight. Moira envied its direction. She hated being underground, unable to see the sun or the moon. It wasn’t lost on her that she was fated to die, now, in the shadows and in the muck and in the dirt and blood and hate of the Deep Roads. It made her resent any time underground that much more. But Alistair pulled her forward. The knowledge he was close spurred her to push against the flow of the stream harder, her boots sliding against the algaed stones lining the waterway. 

As silently as they could with the lapping water, they crept along the walls of the aqueduct. Eventually, the tunnel turned and widened, the walkway they were following narrowed against the wall and began to slope up out of the water. While on their left, the stones ended in a drop off and the stream widened into an underground river disappearing under the stone. Unlit torches were hung on the walls as the ground continued to slope upward, turning a rounded corner. As they walked, Moira began to be aware of a rather awful smell. Debris and rotted food littered the sloping ground in the small circle of light their swords made. Rats squeaked and fled the dim light. The slope steepened as it went up, and holding her sword up higher, she could dimly see branches off the main tunnel.

“It appears, mi amora, that we’ve found the garbage chute.” Zevran’s voice was muffled by the hand covering his nose.

“And it’s unguarded,” she pointed out.

“Not a very paranoid lot, then, these legendary warriors,” Shale said disapprovingly.

“It’s a garbage chute and there’s no Blight. What’s there to guard against?” Cullen’s voice was contemptuous.

Moira heard Shale spin to give the recruit another piece of her mind, and interrupted, “Children, we need to keep moving.” She glanced at Zevran. “It can’t be this easy, can it?”

He shrugged, “I’ve only snuck into a palace and the occasional castle. A military keep is a bit beyond my experience, my Warden. But, I agree. This has been too easy.” He grinned at her, his eyebrow arching, “Perhaps, yet again, they are underestimating you?”

She let out a short laugh, “I can only hope.” She stood at the juncture of the tunnels and weighed each side mentally, trying to see if she could sense Alistair. The problem was, there were too many Grey Wardens around and it foxed her usual ability to find the man she loved anywhere using their shared taint. However, while both branches were sloped, one side smelled less foul than the other. She deduced that the cleaner smelling branch would probably lead into the keep proper, but that the one that smelled the worst would head into their dungeons or prisons. Or at least, that’s what she hoped. She headed down the left-hand branch, the others silently following her lead.

The left hand tunnel sloped more gently than the lower part had, and wound back on itself several times. The stones were slippery and slimy and more than once, at least one of them had to grab hold of the wall or a friend to keep from sliding painfully on to their rear ends. Rats continuously skittered out of their way, chittering their displeasure at the light of the glowing swords in the near pitch black tunnels. The sound of water dripping into stagnant puddles counterbalanced their stealthy footsteps. Zevran sheathed his blade as they came to a bend in the tunnel and motioned for them to stop as he crept ahead to scout. Moira leaned up against the wall, switching her glowing blade to her other hand and stretching out the arm that had gotten tired holding up her blade. Cullen leaned against the wall next to her. Shale stood a little farther away, peering into the darkness behind them, her feet planted and her arms crossed.

“Was she really… a… golem?” Cullen whispered to Moira.

“Yes. Since the last Blight, I think. She doesn’t remember,” Moira shrugged, her armored shoulders barely moving.

“That’s…. incredible,” he replied, his voice trailing off. Moira looked at Cullen. For once, he wasn’t glaring at her, or watching her constantly. He wasn’t frowning or pouting. He was just looking at Shale. She shook her head and turned to watch for Zevran.

It didn’t take long for the elf to reappear. He looked disappointed, however, when he saw her watching for him, he had probably been planning on startling her. He gave a brief report when he got closer, “It is the prisons up ahead. They are patrolled, of course. But the guards aren’t paying a lot of attention. I wonder if they’re even Wardens?”

Moira shrugged, “They may not be. I wouldn’t waste a Warden as a prison guard.”

“Then we can sneak by?” Cullen asked.

“The elves can sneak by, you lout,” Shale interjected. “You and I can’t hope to match their stealth in our armor.”

“I’m afraid I’m just as incapable of stealth in armor as both of you,” Moira laughed softly. “Let’s go. Just remember we’re not going to kill anyone.” Zevran in the lead, the four crept along the slippery passageway as quietly as they could. 

They reached the hole in the wall at the rear of the prison level. It was a narrow hole, but not too small for her or Zevran or Shale to fit through even with their armor. Cullen, however, was going to have to take his off to fit. The two women climbed out, and Zevran stayed to help Cullen in the narrow space. Moira was glad Zevran behaved himself, but then her friend knew when professionalism was needed. 

Cullen got through the hole and they managed to get his armor back in place before the patrol made it around to their hiding spot. Moira turned to Zevran, “Don’t suppose you saw where they were keeping him?” 

“Most of the cells looked empty, mi amora. I’d have to guess he’s in one of the ones they seem to keep looking in as they go by.”

She drew her sword and dagger. “Then let’s go find our king, shall we?”


	22. Chapter 22

Moira peered around the corner at the patrolling guards. Fortunately, they both had their backs to the small group as they walked down the narrow corridor. Zevran pushed past Moira and silently rushed the two guards. Before Moira could react, Zevran had become a blur of movement and was suddenly lowering both men to the ground silently. The mage rushed over to the assassin, but before she could ask, he whispered, “Both alive, as my Warden requested.” 

“Thank you. Should we put them in one of these cells?” she asked. 

“Let me relieve them of their keys, first, mi amora,” the assassin crouched down and yanked two large key rings from the guards’ belts. Shale opened one of the empty cells and Cullen and Zevran each dragged one of the guards into the small space and unceremoniously dropped them. Moira waded through the keys to find one that fit the lock, but the sound of boots on stone made her give up in frustration and cast a small cone of fire at the lock, melting it. 

At Zevran’s rather disgusted look at the slagged metal, she shrugged, “What? They can take the door off to get to them.” Zevran just shook his head and moved forward to set up another ambush for the approaching guards. Moira hoped they wouldn’t have too many more to disable. Figuring out which cell Alistair was in was going to be difficult enough.

“We’ll deal with the guards, you start looking in cells, Cullen,” she told the ex-Templar. The taller man nodded and went back to the beginning of the hall to start peering in to the darkened interiors of the cells. Shale saw what he was attempting to do and yanked down one of the unlit torches and used Moira’s flame spell on her sword to light it and brought it to him. 

By the time Moira had caught up to Zevran, he’d disabled another pair of guards and was dragging them into another cell. “You know, you should really let me help you with the fighting, Zevran.” She grabbed the feet of the remaining guard and started dragging him into the cell. When she dropped the guard’s feet, he was there in front of her, standing close. She resisted the urge to back up. 

“I will not bring you to him harmed, _mi amora_. Whatever it is between us, I know you love him still. And he cannot live without you. I will not risk you so close to our goal.” He tucked a stray lock behind her pointed ear that had fallen out of her braid and into her eyes, then used that as an excuse to cup her jaw, his calloused hands gentle on her skin. “I’ve told you before, I am no cheat. I will be leaving when we are safely back in Denerim. I cannot watch you with him any longer, and I will not go behind his back.”

Moira swallowed, “What, you’ll stay if I tell him about you? About how we feel?” His mouth was so close to hers, but she didn’t take that opportunity he’d left open, not yet. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? He circled her nose with his, his breath warm on her face, and kissed her, pressing her up against the wall. His lips were insistent, as if he were saying good-bye right here in this filthy cell. Her hands went to his waist, pulling him closer, not content to let him lean on his hands on the wall. She pulled him off balance and he caught himself on her, allowing her to push past his lips with her tongue. He ground his hips against her armored body and pushed her feet apart to stand between her legs. Both were breathing raggedly into each other’s mouths and Moira felt Zevran reach up and grab her hair to roughly yank her head back, baring her throat. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, pulling him closer, and wished her armor would disappear. Then, Zevran stopped. He pulled his mouth from her neck and looked at her, his dark lashes low over his hazel eyes. Moira wet her lips, trying to find the words to beg him to stay. But before she could think of anything he lowered his head and briefly gave her a nearly chaste kiss before turning away and going back to his search for guards. Moira stood still for a moment, Alistair’s boyish grin intruding on her stunned reverie. _Maker,_ she thought. _I’m going to lose both of them._

She followed Zevran, her heart heavy in her chest, but before she could catch up to her fellow elf, Shale rounded the corner at a run. “Moira!” She hissed, “Cullen’s found him!” The dwarf grabbed Moira’s wrist and hauled the taller woman behind her. When Moira reached the cell, Zevran was already there, working the lock. She handed him the keys, which he took, looked at them, then discarded them. She could see the logic in just picking the lock rather than trying to figure out which of the many keys on those rings belonged to this lock. Cullen stood over him, peering in through the bars. “He lifted me up to make sure. He’s been beaten badly, Moira,” Shale informed her. Moira could see Zevran’s shoulders tighten at the news.

The elf mage looked down at the dwarf, her blue eyes wide. “How badly?” 

“Well,” the dwarf looked away, “He’s not as pretty as he was.”

Moira couldn’t swallow around the lump in her throat, “Please, Zev, hurry.” Within seconds the door was unlocked and the four of them stood staring at the King of Ferelden. His arms were hung from too short chains bolted into the stone wall, his wrists abraded from the metal. His head lolled to one side, resting on his biceps away from the door. His blue tunic was in tatters and blood spattered. The eye closest to the door was swollen shut, and his lips were split. The cheekbone she could see was swollen and may have been broken. His long, strong legs lay weakly against the stone floor, one bent unnaturally, though it didn’t appear broken. The smell was worse. They’d left him like this, chained like an animal. They’d left him without enough room to relieve himself nor had they come to treat his injuries. Were they just going to leave him to rot down here? 

Zevran cursed in Antivan, breaking their stunned silence. In the same breath, Cullen shouted, “Stop!” and Moira yelled, “Wait!” and reached out to him to keep him from touching Alistair. The mage and the Templar had both seen signs of a glyph around Alistair, Moira didn’t recognize it, but she knew enough to know that touching Alistair at this point would be a bad idea.

But she was too late. Time slowed down as Zevran touched the shackles and the king’s arm and Moira put her hand on Zevran’s shoulder to pull him away. Then blackness enveloped her as she closed the circuit and both mage and assassin were dragged into unconsciousness.

Before Cullen could add himself to the chain of unconscious prisoner and would-be rescuers, Shale pushed him back. “Stop! Look at what happened!”

Morosely, Cullen sighed, “I know.” He closed his eyes and focused on the magical energy in the cell, willing it to dissipate. When he opened them, he looked down at Shale. “My Templar abilities can’t dispel this, whatever it is.”

Before Shale could answer, a whiney, Ferelden accented voice sounded from behind them, “C-Cullen?” With one movement, the Grey Warden recruit had his dagger out and had the man pinned to the wall opposite the cell, the blade to his skinny neck.

“Jowan! Why, by Andraste’s Arse, am I utterly unsurprised to see you here?” Cullen snarled.

~*~

Moira opened her eyes, blinking into a blinding light. Her eyes focused and she instinctively threw herself to one side, dodging a hurlock’s axe. Alistair was there, suddenly, beating back the monster with his shield and sword. Stupidly, Moira froze for a moment, just watching him, drinking in the sight of him. Zevran was there, deflecting a sudden strike at her back.

“Wake up, my Warden!” Zevran shouted, ducking a mace. “Watch your handsome prince’s backside later!” She fired off a lightning bolt at the glenlocks surrounding Zevran, their number diminishing as several of them fell from her spell. She felt Morrigan’s spell take out the rest with a timely blast of frost. 

Wait… she was on the top of Fort Drakon. How did she get here? The question bounced around in the back of her mind as she shattered a hurlock about to hit Alistair with a two handed sword. A memory of Lelianna fixing the catapults as they fought surfaced… she hadn’t brought Zevran to the top of the Fort. What was he doing here, now? A massive shadow passed overhead and the loud sound of something heavy and clawed hitting stone reached Moira’s ears. Her blood ran cold. No. Impossible. That thing was dead. Its soul inhabited Morrigan’s baby. 

Alistair met her eyes over the pile of darkspawn corpses, then lifted his sword and ran toward the Archdemon. “Maker, no!” she cried out. Her heart leaped into her throat when Zevran finished off the last glenlock mobbing him and ran to catch up with Alistair. 

Morrigan was suddenly there by her side, “They need us, Moira! Let’s go!” She grabbed Moira’s bare arm. _Wait, I wore armor to this fight, not mage robes!_ The thought skittered across her mind, unreal. She ran to keep up with Morrigan, her pulse pounding around the lump in her throat. 

Moira cried out as Zevran suddenly landed in a heap at her feet, motionless and limp. “Zevran! No!” She reached for the knowledge of how to bring him back from the Fade, the spell of Revival, but she couldn’t remember it. It was missing in her memory, it wasn’t as if she’d forgotten it, the knowledge was literally gone. She turned to Morrigan, “Help him! Please!” 

The stern-faced woman turned to glare at her, her golden eyes glowing, “There’s no help for the dead, Moira. Alistair needs our help, now!”

The mage followed the apostate’s imperiously pointing finger and saw Alistair taking on the Archdemon on his own. He dodged its tail and one of its massive claws, but was struck by another. The dragon glowed red with the effect of a Curse of Mortality from Morrigan and Moira summoned the three spell combination of Storm of the Century. It was a move of desperation, since it might also harm Alistair, but with one of her loves dead, she was desperate to save the other. 

The final spell exploded from her fingertips and the Archdemon roared its agony as frozen lighting played over its scaly hide, rending it from the inside out. Alistair launched himself at the thing’s head and finally shoved his sword through the joining of neck and head for the monster. Gracefully, he rode the thrashing, nearly dead dragon to the ground, hopping off and meeting Moira halfway. She could feel the thing’s agony as she had the first time she’d slain it. Wait… when had she slain it before?

She wanted to fling herself into his arms, sobbing in relief, but he held up a hand to stop her. “Wait. Let me. There is no need for you to die. This is MY duty. I should be the one to kill it.”

 _Oh, Maker, no, this can’t be happening!_ Aloud, her voice answered, far too calmly and without her permission, “Why would you sacrifice yourself, Alistair?”

He sighed, running a gory, gauntleted fist through his blood-soaked hair, “I didn’t want to be king, but you convinced me I should be. And I want to be a good king. This right here, is the best king I could be, my first and last act being to stop the Blight before it really starts. No one could blame me for that, could they?”

 _Oh, no you don’t, you son of a bitch, don’tyoudareleavemealone!_ “That’s not the only reason and you know it.” Why couldn’t she say what she wanted to say?

He nodded, “You’re right. I know how I feel about you. I won’t let you die, not when I can do something about it.”

“Wait! This is crazy!” Finally, she could say what she wanted to! 

“This is the sanest thing I’ve ever done.” With two steps, he was crushing her against his chest, his mouth hungry on hers as if to burn her into his memory. She clung to him and he straightened up, pulling her off her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her fingers in his short, blood-spattered hair. His tongue pushed its way into her mouth and she tasted salt from his sweat and tears as he held on to her. She felt tears course down her cheeks, too, trembling with her terror and sorrow. He couldn’t be doing this. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t what happened! Wasn’t it? Was this the real thing, the other just a dream? She sobbed against his lips, crushing his mouth against hers.

He stood her on her own feet, leaning down to rest his cheek gently against hers, his stubble rough against her skin, her fingers still entwined in his hair. “You can’t leave me. Please, you can’t leave me,” Moira heard herself begging him.

Alistair cupped her face in his hands, and kissed the tears running down. “I will love you. Always.” He spun on his heel and yanking his heavy sword from behind his back, he ran at the thrashing, nearly-dead Archdemon and attacked it. 

“Alistair, NO!” She tried to run to him, but Morrigan was hanging on to her, preventing her from running to the man she loved, her king, her brother. 

Morrigan spun her around to look at her and slapped her. Moira stared up at her, startled. “If this isn’t supposed to be happening, then _take_ control!”

“What are you talking about, Morrigan!” Morrigan’s face shifted oddly, as if she was fighting something. 

“Save them, you idiot! I may not care about them, but you certainly do! Fix this, if it’s not real!” Morrigan’s fingers spasmed on Moira’s arms, leaving bruises on her pale skin. 

Suddenly Morrigan was glaring down at her, “The fool finally made himself useful, I see.” The explosion from the sword impacting the Archdemon’s skull hit them, then, launching Moira into the air to land next to Zevran’s corpse. His sightless hazel eyes staring in her general direction were the last thing she saw before her head impacted the stone and she lost consciousness again.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely NSFW. Read at your own risk.

Alistair didn’t know how long he’d been in the Fade. He wasn’t even sure when he’d begun to recognize it as such. The fact that anything he wasn’t looking at directly was blurry and indistinct was his first clue. The fact that he knew Moira had never died fighting the Archdemon was the second. The last clue was that Zevran would never have betrayed them and killed her either. He knew he was in the Fade. The real question now was why? 

The first time he’d been trapped in the Fade, he’d been much younger, mentally and emotionally, at least, if not chronologically. But stopping a civil war, slaying an archdemon, and ruling a kingdom tends to age a man. He was no longer quite the idiot who’d fallen for the Sloth Demon’s fake sister ruse. He did wonder if his body was being maintained in the real world, he hoped he wouldn’t die here. He desperately wanted to see the real Moira and hold her one last time, at the very least, before death came for him. But neither would happen while he was stuck in this repetitive nightmare. 

He watched the latest of his torments unfold around him. It was the ambush that Zevran had chosen to introduce himself with. Resignedly, he ran up to where fake-Zevran was attacking fake-Moira, and shield bashed the assassin until the elf lost his balance and fell at Moira’s feet. Unlike the real Moira, the dream Moira didn’t regroup and circle around behind Alistair, using his armored bulk to shield herself until she regained her strength. DreamMoira instead stood where she’d been and continued to fire off staff blasts at DreamZevran. Alistair cursed himself for a fool as he fell for DreamZevran’s feint and found his legs kicked out from under him as the assassin went for the mage again. Even knowing she wasn’t real, however, Alistair needed to help her, save her. 

Panic filled his chest as she fell back at the onslaught of the assassin’s daggers, her feet stumbling. Her raven hair had begun to hang from its customary pony tail in disarray. Her sapphire eyes were wide and her pale cheeks flushed with terror. This wasn’t the confident, powerful young mage who’d united a war-torn country by force of will and charm and led it to fight monsters from nightmares. This was the girl fresh out of the Tower who was still bewildered by the great world and whom he’d felt the need to protect. She’d still managed to wipe the floor with Zevran in this particular ambush in reality; however the dream version wasn’t going quite as well. This Zevran had no suicide wish. This Zevran hadn’t taken one look at Moira and decided to be hers if she let him live. This Zevran’s eyes weren’t hollow with pain, they were just hollow with death. Ordinarily, he’d be dismayed to see that dead expression in his friend’s eyes, but right now, he was trying to kill Moira. Alistair’s heart lurched as he noticed her scant mage robes were torn and bloody where DreamZevran’s blades had found their targets. The Grey Warden finally got back on his feet, he felt like a turtle on its back when he managed to get knocked over in plate mail, rushing to where the assassin had the mage pinned against the rock face.

Before Alistair could reach them, however, DreamZevran shoved one of his daggers through Moira’s chest and up into her heart. Alistair suddenly couldn’t breathe. The logical part of his brain was screaming at him she wasn’t dead, this wasn’t her, calm down and think, dammit! But his rage took over. He attacked the assassin, stupidly, forgetting even his training, his experience at fighting next to the rogue, and fighting hundreds of other rogues in the Blight. He wasn’t watching for all those tricks he knew Zevran knew, he just wanted the elf dead. And DreamZevran managed to accomplish his mission in the Fade as he never did in real life. Alistair blocked another feint, but missed the real attack and DreamZevran ‘s blade buried itself in his heart through a tiny gap in his armor. The assassin leapt away as Alistair fell to his knees, the world going black. His last sight was Moira’s dead blue eyes, staring at him. He managed to reach his armored hand out to her limp fingers and grasp them as he felt his heart lurch one last time.

But Alistair wasn’t dead. He almost groaned aloud as he realized where he was, yet again. Moira was bending over him, checking him for wounds at the top of Fort Drakon. She was so close, he could smell her, the scent of lyrium nearly overpowering the sweat and cinnamon and roses and that indefinable smell that was just her. He wanted to grab her and just bury his face in her hair. But he knew she wasn’t the real woman he’d fallen in love with. That whatever he smelled was just a memory, a dream. He stared at her, tired. He was flat on his back again, somehow and by the look of the surrounding stone, they were back on top of Fort Drakon. He was going to have to watch her sacrifice herself for him, again. Tears fell as he dropped his head back to stare up at the storm-roiled sky. “No, Maker. No, not again. Why does it keep coming back to this?” 

A resounding slap across his face made him look at the young mage kneeling in front of him again. “On your feet, you son of a bitch!” He blinked, Moira? Cursing? At him? “If you don’t snap out of this right this minute I’ll leave your ass here and find Zevran first!” He found himself hauled to his feet by the tiny woman’s fists and pushed backward until he was pinned against a stone parapet. Nervelessly, his fingers dropped his sword and shield and he gasped at her, staring.

She was, indeed, different from the DreamMoiras he’d watched die repeatedly, sometimes gasping out their last in his arms. Her hair was longer, for one. More like he remembered when he’d left for Weisshaupt. There were subtle lines around her eyes and mouth from the stress of their duties, the decisions she’d made, the hells she’d led them through. For once, she was in armor, too: the silverplated set with the garish splash of red stylized dragon over one shoulder. The mage suddenly crushed her lips to his and he felt himself react. This was Moira. The real one. The woman he’d die for and kill for and live for. He spun them and pressed her against the wall, his mouth pushing against hers, deepening the kiss, pushing his tongue past her teeth, needing to taste her. Her fingers went up into his hair, holding him close as if he would break away. There was too much armor in the way. It needed to be gotten rid of, now. His fingers went to the clasp of her breast plate, but her hands left his hair to stop him. She broke the kiss first. She leaned her forehead against his and gasped out, “I don’t think this is the best time for a reunion, my love. Maybe you could dream us somewhere else?”

He sighed, pulling away from her, reluctantly. “I’ve tried. I’ve really tried. I know this isn’t real. But I’ve watched you die, over and over and over until I thought my mind would break. If there’s a way out, I haven’t been able to discover it.” He stared down at her upturned face, the most wonderful sight he’d ever seen, and felt just as beaten as he had before. “What is the purpose of this, Moira? What demon trapped us this time?”

She shook her head. “This is not a demon’s doing. I’ve been able to take control a little too well.” She crossed her plated arms and looked around him. Alistair glanced behind him and saw DreamMoira approaching. RealMoira snorted, “Really? Couldn’t you at least give me clothes to die in?” He glanced back at DreamMoira and realized she was wearing the scant Robes of the Witch again with the neckline that slit down to her navel and somehow managed to involve a great many straps in attractive spots.

Alistair looked back at the woman he loved, the real one, “What? I didn’t give that get up to you, er, her!” 

“You certainly did!” Moira shot back. Crossing her arms over her plated chest, her eyes flashed in anger and she leveled a pointed finger at her scantily clad double. Alistair felt his knees grow weak. Maker, she was beautiful when she was angry! “First lesson in getting control, Alistair: put some real clothes on her.”

The DreamMoira simply stood there, staring at him wistfully. As beautiful as this thing was, he preferred the irritated, sweaty woman behind him. None of the DreamMoiras had ever sweated, he realized belatedly, any doubts he’d had, the few he’d had, vaporized with that realization. “How do I put clothes on her?” He stared at the waifish duplicate, aware of all the flaws in the dream woman. As a matter of fact, it seemed like someone else’s idea of Moira entirely, now that he was really looking at her and not struggling to save her from certain death. “You realize that’s not how I see you at all, right? I mean, it must look like it is, because this is my dream, my nightmare and I’m supposed to be in control, but I know you’re not that… perfect.”

He heard Moira snort behind him, “Good. Glad to hear you finally destroyed that pedestal you used to have me on. Concentrate on her and see if you can get her closer to how you DO see me. Don’t worry, if it bothers you, I won’t look.” He could hear the laughter in her voice. Hearing her mock him was a relief, a wonderful sound. “Picture how you want her to look and try to make what’s in front of you fit your mental image.” He stared at the duplicate and thought of how he saw the real woman. It was a lot closer to the petite elf mage behind him that was certain. He pictured the false Moira looking like the one behind him. For a moment, the two images merged, the “real” one covering the dream one. 

It took three tries before he finally got the fake woman to look more like the real one. The real Moira walked over and circled her duplicate warily, examining it. Suddenly, a dragon screamed overhead and the archdemon landed. Fake Moira ran toward it, her armor glinting in the reddish light. The real Moira grabbed his hand. “Quick, dream us somewhere else! I really don’t want to see you die again!” 

Alistair looked at her quizzically, “What are you talking about? You always punch me and take out the archdemon yourself!” 

Moira’s eyebrows climbed into her hairline, “That’s interesting.” She shook her head, though, “But that’s something to think about later. Get us out of here!” 

Alistair complied, thinking of the most familiar place he could that was safe. He pulled his mage to him and kissed her as he recreated her chambers in Denerim’s palace around them, their armor disappearing in the process.

She stood back from him, breaking his kiss. “I don’t think…” She began, but trailed off, looking around and then at him. They were completely without armor or weapons or clothing. Alistair stared at her, a lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. Maker’s breath, she is beautiful! Still holding his hand, she stared up at him, her blue eyes wide. He allowed his eyes to travel over her, drinking in everything he could see: the crisscrossing of scars where the healing magic hadn’t quite done its job when the wound was too extensive, her high, perfect breasts and her strong legs with their lean muscle. He wanted those legs wrapped around him in the worst way.

“Do you know how many times I’ve watched you die?” Before she could protest again, he pulled her against him, lifting her in his arms. She flung her arms around his neck and he captured her mouth with his. He carried her to the bed and without breaking his lips from hers, laid her down. He felt himself grow hard and pressed against her, instinctively. Her skin, her strength, her scent -- he’d missed all of it. He wanted so badly to be inside her, but also wanted this to last as long as he could. She opened her legs for him, though, rubbing her damp warmth against him. He moaned and pulled his mouth from hers and began to do the only thing he could think of to prolong their reunion. He trailed his mouth and tongue down her throat to her breasts and slid one hand down her torso, reveling in the fact that she was trembling for him and making small moaning sounds. He slid his fingers between her legs, careful to keep just outside of her core, teasing her until she arched her hips up into his hand. He grinned against her nipple and teased it with his teeth and lips and gently slid one finger inside her as deep as he could get it, pushing the palm of his hand against that small bud in the front. Her hips bucked and she clutched at his hair as she cried out his name. 

He could tell she was close to her peak, but he didn’t want her to reach it quite yet. Slowing down, he stopped pressing on that bud in the front and merely drew his finger in and out, slowly. She moved until her legs were open even farther and her hips were angled for him. The entire time he’d been stuck in this nightmare realm he’d been dreaming of her and now she was here. He wasn’t going to let her go. He kissed a path down her stomach and through the tight curls over her sex. He felt her tense in anticipation, and, keeping his finger slowly moving in and out, he gently placed his tongue on that sensitive spot and licked, slowly, tenderly, relishing the taste of her that he’d missed. He heard her moan, loudly, and smiled against her. He looked up the length of her slender body and met her eyes, his finger keeping up its slow, teasing rhythm, “Should I stop? I mean, if it’s too much for you.”

She glared down at him, “If you stop, Alistair Thierin, I’ll –,“ she cut off as he drew his tongue across her. “Oh, Maker, don’t stop. Please for the love of Andraste, do not stop!”

Smiling, he sat up, kneeling between her legs. “Why’d you stop?” she nearly whimpered. She gazed down the length of her body and he watched her realize he was hard and ready for her and her eyes widened. He lifted her hips and drew her closer. Slowly he worked himself inside her, she was still so tight, but so wet. Every muscle in his body trembled with the need to hold back for her. She cried out as he entered her, but when his eyes flew open to look at her and make sure he hadn’t hurt her, she smiled at him and adjusted her hips so that somehow he was even further inside. 

He pushed himself up on his hands and stared into her eyes, unwilling to look away. He felt her tiny fingers entwine themselves in his hair and she pulled his mouth back to hers. She bucked her hips and he took the hint, rolling until she was on top. Slowly, she moved against him, sliding up and down his length until he couldn’t keep himself still any longer and let himself tremble at her touch. She leaned down and her small hands traced the muscles on his torso as she trailed her tongue along the pale hair on his chest. He threw his head back and arched up into her, causing her to gasp and sit up, head thrown back. The vision of her body held in that taught line, her small breasts bouncing as she rode him, almost made him come undone too soon. But he wanted to keep her like that for just a little longer. He slid his hand down between them and placed his fingers on that small bud and rubbed a gentle circle until she cried out and ground against him harder. Her hands grasped his forearms to hold on. He looked up to meet her eyes, half lidded in pleasure, tousled black hair falling over her shoulders and over one eye. The pressure was becoming unbearably intense, but he was going to do his damnedest to hang on until she let go. 

By the Maker she was so wet and still so tight. He kept his hand moving even as she ground down against his hips. He held her gaze, though, unwilling to stop watching her face as she bit her lip and her cheeks flushed and her eyes fluttered closed. Then they flew open as she began to spasm around him and her fingers dug into his arm and he, too, let go.


	24. Chapter 24

Zevran sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He had no idea what had hit him, but whatever it was hurt and left his ears ringing. He was suddenly yanked to one side and blinked blearily up at Alistair. Alistair! “Move it, you lazy Crow! This is no time for a nap!” The Grey Warden ordered him, hauling him to his feet. Zevran was suddenly aware of his surroundings. He quickly ducked a Hurlock’s sword aimed for his neck and ran the thing threw before it could swing again. “So glad you could join us!” Alistair grinned at him. The two men maneuvered until they were fighting back to back. Zevran still had no idea where they were fighting and for the life of him, he had no idea how he’d gotten here or why it surprised him to see Alistair, much less be fighting next to the man. But most importantly, where was Moira?

A break in the waves of darkspawn had them both looking around for The Warden. Alistair spotted her first and took off for her. Zevran took the opportunity to look around. Judging from the stone work and the open sky above them and the dragon breathing blue fire that Moira was currently casting a spell at, he judged himself to be on top of Fort Drakon. _But how? Moira and Alistair refused to bring me when they fought the Archdemon_ , the thought skittered across his mind, barely acknowledged as he ran after Alistair. 

Moira flung her arms out, casting a lightning storm at the giant dragon. The diminutive elf mage was clad in her blue Robe of the Witch. It seemed odd to him for some reason he couldn’t place. Where was her armor? Her sword? Wait, when did Moira carry a sword or wear armor? Mages didn’t do that!

Did they?

He was right behind Alistair when a particularly vicious swipe of the dragon’s tail hit Moira in the middle of her cast and she was flung, hard, hard enough to crack bone, against the battlements. The dragon forgotten, Alistair forgotten, he changed course and rushed over to her, his stomach turning at the sickening angle at which her head slumped to her shoulders. No! It was supposed to be him! Never her! She was the hero, the hero didn’t die! He was meant to die in her place!

He froze in place. Wait. What was going on? He turned to see Alistair, not even looking at Moira, thrust his sword into the dragon’s neck. “Maker’s Breath, what are you doing, Alistair?”

Alistair turned to look at the elf, “My job.”

“But what about Moira?” Zevran demanded.

Freeing one of his hands, Alistair pointed to a crumpled form in bright red robes on the other side of the dragon, his voice was agonized. “I can’t bring back the dead like they can, Zev. I can only follow her. May the Maker smile on you, my friend.” His heart in his throat, Zevran ran toward the only friend he had left. He wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there, he only knew being alone again was a fate worse than death. The explosion as Alistair struck the death blow on the archdemon and absorbed its soul threw Zevran backward toward the battlements with enough force that he felt something vital in his back crack. His last sight before loosing consciousness was seeing Alistair’s lifeless body crumpled near Moira’s. 

~*~

He entered an alley, blinking into the sudden sunlight, he stopped, his blood freezing in his veins. _No, absolutely not, not this!_ The thought seemed far away and small. But he smiled at Moira as she turned to him in concern, still wearing those odd robes. He couldn’t complain about how they fit her, but he knew she disliked them immensely. Wait, she did? Then why wear them? Where was her armor? And why did these questions seem so familiar? 

The alley was rank and ripe with trash and poverty. Morrigan kept pulling the skirts of her robes out of puddles, and wrinkling her nose. Morrigan? Where was Wynne? Alistair merely ignored the rubbish and refuse, keeping his eyes open and looking around cautiously. The Templar trained Warden only stopped looking around long enough to watch Moira walk in front of him, his expression softening and turning both loving and lecherous. Zevran sympathized even through his flare of jealousy, he often caught himself looking at her similarly. The small group reached the stairs, but was stopped by the appearance of someone who made Zevran’s blood run cold. A tall, dark haired man stood at the top of the stairs, “At long last, the Crows send their greetings once again.” Taliesin had been his friend, his occasional lover for more years than Zevran cared to think. But Taliesin was a Crow through and through, even more than Zevran before a pair of beautiful blue eyes made him see there was more than blades and sex and death in this life.

“So, they sent you, Taliesin? Or did you volunteer for the job?” The elven assassin glanced at his friends, only Morrigan stood staring at him with distaste, Alistair and Moira with trust. 

“I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself!” Taliesin smirked, crossing his arms. 

“Is that so? Well, here I am, in the flesh.” Warning bells were sounding in Zevran’s head. He surreptitiously looked around for the rest of Taliesin’s team, trying to count their opposition. Though they were well hidden, the telltale shift of a plant against the wind, or the subtly hidden glint of metal quickly hidden behind a building or a cart gave up a few positions. Zevran figured for every one he could pick out, there were two he could not.

Taliesin turned on his charm, he had no way of knowing the elf mage standing next to Zevran had more charm in her little finger than his old friend had. Zevran suspected, now, that Taliesin had manipulated him into allowing Rinna’s death. Taliesin was not going to cost him this woman. “You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.”

His heart leapt into his throat as Moira cut in, “Of course, I’d have to be dead first.”

“And I’m not about to let that happen,” Zevran told her, relieved to see the resolve in her eyes.

“What? You’ve gone soft!” Taliesin shouted.

Sadly, Zevran responded, “I am sorry, my old friend, but the answer is no. I’m not coming back. And you should have stayed in Antiva.” With Zevran’s reply, the Crows leapt out from cover, Taliesin charged down the stairs. Morrigan went down with an arrow in her throat, but Moira was too pressed by Taliesin to revive her, though she looked to be winning with Taliesin being frozen in place. Alistair was hard put upon by five other Crows. Zevran, confident in Moira’s abilities to deal with his former friend herself, rushed to take some of the heat off Alistair. _This isn’t right_ , Zevran thought. _I let him face her. I didn’t do this._ But the thoughts went ignored in the back of his mind.

He realized his mistake too late. Somehow, he felt rather than saw her die. Alistair’s reaction was instantaneous; he threw the last man away from him and charged the Crow. Zevran ran the remaining attacker through and leapt after Alistair to help him take down Taliesin. But the world slowed down and Zevran couldn’t seem to move fast enough. The tall Grey Warden, despite his formidable skills on the battlefield and despite Zevran teaching him how to counter every dirty trick he knew, fell at Taliesin’s feet, dead, his throat slit. “NO!” Zevran shouted, throwing himself at his former lover. 

Taliesin parried Zevran’s wild strike and was forced to duck another. But Zevran didn’t relent. This man had cost him Rinna and Morrigan, Alistair and especially Moira. He would not leave this alley alive. Taliesin was a dead man, he just didn’t know it yet. Ducking and dodging and parrying and feinting, Zevran threw his heart into defeating the man who’d just cost him everything. A particularly brutal strike across the back of Taliesin’s knee had the man collapsing in the dirt. He looked up at Zevran and the appeal for his life died on his lips. Zevran glared down at him, “It ends here, Taliesin.” And with one thrust of his sword, ran the man through the heart. 

Zevran sheathed his weapons and ran to Moira’s body, hoping he’d ended it in time to save her life. He fell to his knees as he realized her sightless blue eyes stared up at the cloudless sky. Tears streaming down his face, he pulled her head into his lap.

~*~

Moira led Alistair through the alley, instantly recognizing it. “Oh, no.” 

Alistair looked down at her, “What?”

“Don’t you recognize this place? This is where the Crows came for Zevran,” Moira began walking faster, tugging on Alistair’s hand that she held tightly clasped in her own, afraid of what she’d find.

“Tally-something-or-other, wasn’t it?” Alistair asked, catching up to her. Moira gasped and broke into a run, her armor making far too much noise, but she didn’t care. Her friend had apparently just watched her die, for Maker knew however many times. Zevran’s hair was blood matted and his armor was stained. He knelt on the ground, his wiry body curved around something in his lap. Moira was willing to bet it was her. 

“Zevran, oh, Andraste, Zevran!” She shouted at him. She finally reached him and pulled his face around to look at her. “Zev, it’s me. I’m all right!”

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn, then he leapt to his feet and she suddenly found herself being kissed and kissing back, despite her death grip on Alistiar’s hand. The elf tasted of blood and tears and sweat, but he was here and he was whole and he was well. He crushed her against him, ignoring her armor. Alistair cleared his throat behind them, “Uh, I know it’s tough to watch her die and all, but she is my –“ before he could finish his sentence, Zevran had released Moira’s mouth, but still had one hand on her hip. With the other, he pulled Alistair’s mouth down to his using the breast plate of the other man’s armor like a handle and kissed the former Templar as thoroughly as he’d just kissed Moira. Zevran’s movement allowed Moira to see that he had, in fact, been crying over both of them, the dream duplicates had died next to each other.

Moira stared at the two men, astonished that Alistair hadn’t yet broken away. But then, she saw Zevran’s death grip on the other man’s armor and realized Alistair might not be able to break free. She also noticed Alistair’s eyes were closed and raised an eyebrow. She felt Zevran attempt to pull her closer, his hand sliding from her hip to the small of her back. She allowed it, mostly to see what would happen. Amusement was making her shake with the effort of holding in a laugh. And something low in her abdomen tightened, even after her thorough reunion with Alistair a short time ago. She really couldn’t decide if she was turned on by the two men kissing, or if she just wanted to roll on the floor laughing till her sides hurt, knowing what Alistair’s reaction would be.

Dropping his grip on Moira’s hand, Alistair finally shoved Zevran away by planting both hands on the elf’s shoulders and pushing. “Andraste’s ass! What was that for?” Moira was still held snuggly against the elf’s side. Zevran was still gripping Alistair’s breastplate. The assassin was apparently not willing to let either of them go, even for a second.

“I was expressing how glad I was to see you alive, my dear Alistair,” Zevran told the bigger man. The elf’s voice was very casual, but his fingers digging into her hip between the plates of her own mail belied his tone.

“With your tongue?!” Alistair’s voice cracked on the last word. 

Moira lost it, she turned her head to Zevran’s shoulder, leaning her forehead on his armor and just giggled. 

Alistair’s voice was strangled, “I’m glad you find this so funny, my love.” She only laughed harder, but struggled to get her giggles under control. She looked up at Alistair, her blue eyes wide.

Zevran sounded annoyed, but his arm was holding her in place, “I do not know how to take this laughter, mi amora.” He turned his face toward hers, laughter crinkling his eyes, but not touching his voice, “He really is a good kisser. You have taught him well, my Warden.”

With that, Moira’s laughter started up again, she leaned on Zevran helplessly. Glancing over at Alistair’s reddened face only made it worse and she had to wipe tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry, my love,” she gasped. Alistair frowned at her and using both hands, he wrapped them around Zevran’s wrist to wrench the elf’s grip from his breastplate. Moira stopped laughing, a sudden thought occurring to her. She flung her hand out to stop Alistair. “Wait! Don’t let go of each other!”

His hands still wrapped around Zevran’s forearm, Alistair glared at her, “What are you talking about, Moira?” She stepped away from Zevran’s side, but twisted to grab his hand and lace her fingers with his. With her free hand, she touched the King’s. 

“What if that’s the only reason we haven’t been separated yet? You and I have hardly stopped touching since we found each other.” She could almost hear Zevran’s eyebrow raise next to her. “What if that’s why we’re still together?” 

“That is an excellent point, mi amora,” Zevran said. “You were holding hands as you approached, were you not? Alistair only stopped when I touched his delicious lips with my own.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, “Ok, your idea makes sense. Just… no more kissing me, Zevran.”

The elf pouted, “But it was so much fun!”

Moira chuckled, lacing her fingers with Alistair’s as he released Zevran’s wrist. The elf reluctantly let go of the king’s armor, and still keeping hold of Moira’s hand, bent to pick up his weapons, “You gave him Starfang?” Alistair choked out.

“It’s a long story. I had to give Oathkeeper to someone else.”

“Who?” Alistair demanded.

“Remember that Templar in the Circle Tower? The one stuck in the energy field?” Moira asked.

Alistair blinked. “I remember he had a really unhealthy fascination with you.” He grinned slightly, “You’re a living temptation to me, too. But one I’ve learned to live with. Why? What’s he got to do with anything?”

Moira looked everywhere but at the two men. She saw Zevran glare at her out of the corner of her eye, “She recruited the weasel,” the elf’s voice dripped with disdain. “I’ve had to keep them separated ever since, watching over our Warden like a jealous husband! He is clearly obsessed with her, even still.”

Alistair stepped closer to Moira, his fingers still entwined with hers, “I’m going to ignore the whole, ‘husband,’ thing, Zev.” The tall human stood close to Moira so that she had to tilt her head back all the way to see his face. “Thank you for keeping her safe. You shouldn’t have let her come, though.” The king put his free hand on her cheek, affectionately. 

“I did not have a choice,” Zevran grated out between his teeth. She could feel his fingers tighten where they gripped her hand. Moira turned her head and saw pain, quickly masked, behind her friend’s eyes. “And now, she is back with you. All you have to do is get free of this nightmare.” His eyes locked onto Moira’s face as he stepped backward, wrenching his fingers free of hers. The sky twisted above them and the buildings melted around them, the ground was suddenly not solid. 

“I cannot watch you with him any longer, _mi amora_.” Zevran was no longer standing in front of them. The scenery had shifted again to a small valley in the Bannorn. The valley in which Zevran had first introduced himself. 

Moira spun to stare up at Alistair, unable to speak. The king looked down at her and smiled reassuringly through the tears brimming in his own eyes, “We will find him, Moira. And he won’t leave you again.”

“Us, Alistair. _Us_.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. M/M/F. Read at your own risk

Zevran watched the real Moira disappear from view, his heart in his throat. The pain in his chest at leaving her was second only to watching the two of them together, having what he could only dream of. He’d rather stay imprisoned in this land of horror, where at least, the dream Moira’s didn’t look at him as if some part of his dreams were possible. This DreamMoira was pretty to look at, but didn’t have the spark, the drive, the whatever it was that made him love her. But he could pretend. For awhile, at least. 

He spotted one of her simulacra ducking a vicious swing of an axe by a Hurlock Alpha and rushed to defend her. He’d told her once it was his job, as the sidekick, to die for her. She never gave him the opportunity in real life, perhaps in this dream existence he could make it come true. Together, they fought the Alpha with Moira finishing it off with one last freezing spell. Moira turned to him, grinning triumphantly and Zevran captured the dream girl’s mouth with his. Agony suddenly burned through his middle and he broke the kiss, shoving Moira away. He looked down to see the end of a hurlock’s sword sticking out of his stomach and realized his legs weren’t working any more. The sword was ripped out of his back and the hurlock headed for Moira and she frantically backed up away from it. Zenvran felt his knees give out only by the impact on the rest of his body. As he fell face first into the dusty ground, he saw the hurlock swing at Moira, who was apparently too low on lyrium to blast the thing and too far away from anyone else for her to be rescued. With his last strength, he managed to grab his dagger and throw it through the monster’s throat, felling it. The last thing he saw was Moira running for Alistair’s protection.

~*~

He came to in another clearing, blinking his eyes at the bright light of day. How was he still alive? “Get up, you lazy elf!” Alistair ordered him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a sitting position. The assassin looked around, almost afraid to find out where he’d been shuffled off to this time.

“Where in the name of the Maker are we?” he asked.

“Did you hit your head that hard?” Alistair asked, squatting easily next to him. Zevran just looked at the king, remembering in exquisite detail kissing the real man. It was extremely preferable to the memory of being run through by a hurlock, that was certain. Something of his memory must’ve shown on his face because the dreamAlistair began to look uncomfortable. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Zevran grinned, “No, my dear Warden, your face is as lovely as ever.” To his delight, Alistair flushed bright red, got up and practically sprinted away from the elf. He honestly did think Alistair was attractive, if you liked your men big and overly-protective. And if Moira hadn’t been the one to spare his life, he’d have done his level best to relieve this former Chantry boy of his burden of inexperience. But ever since that clearing on that road in the Bannorn, that delicate elven mage had had the hard-bitten assassin wrapped around her tiniest finger, eclipsing even the handsome ex-Templar and the tempting badge of purity he used to wear as if it were hung round his neck. 

For some reason, a new attack hadn’t broken out yet in this particular dream setting. He wasn’t entirely sure where their small group was, but it seemed as if everyone was there, including Oghren. It was then that he realized the event he was about to relive: the sharlocks’ attack on the camp. As soon as everyone fell asleep, they’d be set upon by shrieks. The only thing that had saved them in real life had been Moira’s blade and her seeming ability to be everywhere the fighting was hottest. He knew the simulated Moira had no such skills however. 

The fight would not go as well this time.

He rubbed his forehead. Whoever or whatever had picked these memories out of his mind had gotten everything subtly wrong. It was almost as if they didn’t know Moira, or didn’t understand the concept of her abilities. But if this was run by a demon, and Moira had told him everything she knew of demons, wouldn’t they get this all right so that he’d be better tricked?

While he was thinking, his eyes had been unconsciously following Moira as she talked to everyone around the small campsite. He wanted to figure out the rules of this place. Not necessarily so he could leave, but so that he could turn it to his advantage. Get what he wanted out of the DreamMoiras and Alistairs, hollow though it might be. He ignored the small voice in the back of his mind that shouted, _You idiot! How is this better? They’d just be puppets! It won’t be them!_ His eyes widened as she grabbed Alistair by the hand and dragged him behind her into her tent. That definitely hadn’t happened that night. Briefly, he debated with himself whether it was a good idea to intrude on them. He looked around the camp and saw Leliana looking at him expectantly.

“You’re not going to join them?” her softly Orlesian accented voice asked him.

Stunned, Zevran stared at her. “Should I?”

She shrugged, “You usually do. Just try to keep the noise down.” She smiled indulgently. He wondered at that, the real Leliana would be jealous and trying to join them. She and Moira never brought up the time they’d kissed, but both he and Alistair had seen it. Alistair had disappeared into the forest shortly after they’d separated and Zevran had had to admit his own armor had gotten more than uncomfortable in the hip region. Yes, the real Leliana would not have been this gracious if they’d all three tried to fit into that tent without her.

He knew the minute they all fell asleep, they’d be set upon, but it would be nice to get a little fun out of this nightmare he was stuck in. It could, after all, be awhile before they slept. He stood up and crossed to stand in front of the tent, staring at the flap. It wasn’t them, and they weren’t real. How was this different than one of his fantasies? 

Zevran opened the tent flap and stuck his head in. He froze at the scene in front of him. Moira lay flat on her back on her pallet, all her pale, rosy skin laid bare, her perfect breasts with their impertinent pink tips pointing into the chilly air. Alistair’s ruddy skinned, heavily muscled torso covered most of her while his mouth suckled the tip of one insolently pert nipple. Zevran felt his heartbeat speed up. He could clearly see where Alistair’s hand was between her wide open thighs, his broad palm pressing down on the dark thatch of hair, his fingers exploring every inch of her, sliding in and out; she was visibly trembling from Alistair’s very touch. One of Moira’s hands was wound in the other man’s hair, the other had a death grip on the pallet. Alistair’s shifting hips, and his naked flexing muscular ass let Zevran know the ex-Templar was instinctively seeking pressure of his own. The assassin quickly crept the rest of the way in the tent and tied the flap shut behind him. When he turned back, Moira’s hand left it’s death grip and she held it out for him. Alistair was still tonguing her nipple but had turned to meet the assassin’s eyes and smiled. 

Cautiously, expecting rejection, he crawled to her, a position demanded by the low ceiling of the tent. He bent to kiss her and reached out with one hand to cup one of her breasts and slide his thumb over the sensitized nipple. He was rewarded by her low groan as well as Alistair’s. He felt hands on the laces of his armor and looked up to find the other man had quit caressing Moira to help him out of his dragonscale. Looking at him, Zevran’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that Alistair without a shirt was a truly breathtaking sight, but add in the bare muscular thighs and the fine dusting of pale golden hair that trailed down from the man’s chest and over his manhood and the sight of Moira reaching down to slid her hand around Alistair’s erection, stroking and squeezing, and Zevran felt his own leathers become distressingly uncomfortable. Impulsively, he grabbed Alistair’s hand, still wet from Moira, and pulled the calloused fingers to his mouth. The younger man’s tongue parted his lips as he watched Zevran avidly. The assassin awarded the rapt gaze by licking the strong fingers clean, relishing the taste of the woman between them. Zevran swirled his tongue around the index finger and was rewarded by Alistair’s shaking exhalation and the buck of his hips into Moira’s hand. He wondered if that’s what the man actually looked like or if this was just one of his fantasies made flesh. Zevran decided he didn’t really care. 

Suddenly, the top half of his armor was off and Moira was up on her knees in front of him, the small hand not already occupied with Alistair lightly traced the muscles of his stomach and moved lower. Hers and Alistair’s deft fingers unlaced his trousers, hunted for him under his clothes, pulled the tight leather down over his ass. Moira captured his mouth with hers, one hand gripped his throbbing erection, the other sliding down to cup his balls. She’d apparently removed her hands from Alistair to concentrate on him. His last coherent thought was admiration for the ex-Templar’s self control at being able to function at all with that tiny hand wrapped around him, teasing him. It was his turn to buck his hips uncontrollably. 

He pulled away from their kiss long enough to watch Alistair. The bigger had man moved closer, but his eyes were locked on where her hands wrapped around Zevran. Slowly, cautiously, Alistair reached out and gently stroked Zevran above where Moira’s hands wrapped around him. The calloused fingers stroked his tip until Zevran wanted to beg for more. He shuddered and trembled but didn’t push the ex-Templar. He didn’t trust that this dream version wouldn’t reject him, despite the look of wonder on the handsome face. And the fact that now, it was only Alistair’s hand on him, not Moira’s as well. And when Alistair moved around behind him to tug his leathers down further, Zevran swallowed around the lump in his throat and couldn’t keep himself from trembling. _This is what you’ve wanted, fool._

Zevran knelt naked between them, Moira’s lips and tongue tracing the tendons on his neck and Alistair’s strong hands on his cock, pressing his own erection against Zevran’s ass. He closed his eyes, part of him wishing they were the real people while another part rejoiced that they weren’t. He cupped Moira’s bare breasts and stroked her nipples, gaining him a moan against his throat in reward. The dream Alistair and Moira wouldn’t demand things from him he couldn’t give. He felt Alistair’s erection press harder against his ass and he found himself arching against the warrior, rubbing against the other man. Moira’s hands replaced Alistair’s and Zevran’s head was pulled back by Alistair’s hand in his braid for the other man to kiss him, forcefully. His tongue slipped into Zevran’s mouth at the same time as his finger gently began to ease itself up inside, lubricated by a spell from Moira, no doubt. The assassin let out a moan in spite of himself. _Fantasy or not, I no longer care._

Moira had begun gently trailing her tongue down his torso, but if she took him her mouth, there was no way he would last, not with Alistair setting every nerve ending aflame by adding a second finger alongside the first. It took her hands off him, but then, he wanted to make this last as long as he could. He gently pushed her onto her back and bent at his waist, allowing the ex-Templar better access and giving himself a full view of the elf mage’s slender form sprawled out for him. He stared down at her, her half-lidded blue eyes, the tousled raven hair and focused on how much he wanted her right that minute. Then closed his eyes and moaned when Alistair began to increase the pressure and the pleasure by adding another finger. 

Zevran allowed himself to do what he’d wanted to do since he entered the tent and watched what Alistair was doing to her: he slid one hand between her legs, inserting a finger into her. She gasped and opened her legs further at the same time. He resisted the urge to add his mouth to his hand, he wanted to watch her writhe for him. Alistair’s hand reached around his hips and grasped his erection. Zevran’s strength almost went out of his supporting arm and he pushed against the other man’s hips. Moira panted, looking down at his hand, thrusting her hips against it. He glanced back and caught Alistair’s eye as the other man grinned. They watched her as she arched her back again, crying out, but not quite there, yet. The younger man was apparently enjoying being in control because he then slid his thumb across the tip of Zevran’s cock and the assassin felt himself thrust helplessly backward again. He ached with the need to plunge himself into either of them. Or to have Alistair take him. It didn’t matter which. But he waited. He held himself still with every ounce of discipline the Crows had ever beaten into him. He kept his fingers sliding in and out of Moira, feeling Alistair’s hand move against his ass and on his cock with the rhythm Zevran set for Moira. The assassin leaned down to take one of her neglected nipples in his mouth, sucking hard. He was rewarded by her fingers instantly clutching at his hair and her trembling moan as she came.

Moira clutched the pallet, her legs as wide as she could get them, begging for something more, Alistair still working him from behind. The warrior released Zevran’s cock and grabbed his hips and at the same time Moira wrapped her hands around his erection and guided him to her. He pushed himself inside of her, crying out at the feeling of her surrounding him that had haunted him since that one and only time he’d made love to her. Alistair entered Zevran at the same time and the assassin trembled between both lovers. When the warrior’s arms went around them both and Moira’s mouth captured his again, he trembled with pleasure, or was it agony of bliss? This, this is what contentment felt like. 

He could die a happy man, shrieks be damned.


	26. Chapter 26

Moira lifted her head from Alistair’s chest. “That was... wonderful. I might let you disappear more often if you greet me like that.” 

He hugged her to him. “I’ll just try to greet you like that more often, period.”

Moira sat up, kneeling beside him on their bed., taking his hand in hers. “We need to talk.”

Alistair propped his head up on his other arm, his hazel eyes wary. “About what?”

She took a deep breath. “You needing an heir.”

He sat up, brows drawing together in a frown. “No, we don’t need to talk about that. There’s plenty of time for me to get an heir.”

“You and I both know that’s not true. The longer the taint is in us, the less fertile we are. You know this.”

Still keeping hold of her hand, he pushed himself out of bed. “No, I’m not going to talk about this. Get dressed, we have to find Zevran.”

Two dreams later, “By the Maker, how often did we come close to dying last year?” Alistair demanded, kicking a hurlock’s helmeted head.

“Alistair...”

“Fine.” He glared up at the surreal sky. “You don’t want to force me to be unfaithful to a wife. I need a wife to get an heir. I don’t want a wife, unless it’s you. And I want you to have my children. And I want to grow old with you until we have to go kill a great deal of darkspawn, together.”

“Well, my love,” Moira reached up to cup his face, bringing his eyes back down to her. “I can’t have your children and they couldn’t inherit your kingdom anyway.” She remembered a few reports that had been on her desk when she’d left on the more urgent errand of finding Fereldan’s king. “I’m going to have to go to Amaranthine when we return. If we can find a way out of this bloody dream. And you’re going to stay in Denerim because you have a kingdom to rule.” 

“Well, yes, but... wait, what’s going on in Amaranthine?”

“Darkspawn activity. The purview of the Warden Commander, remember?”

“Bloody hell. So, we’re going to be separated anyway.”

“Yes.” She clasped his hand and took her hand off his face. “So, you might as well find some pretty farm girl to warm your bed and give you heirs.”

He stared down at her, his wide in pain. “Wait, are you... are you taking Zevran with you? Or Cullen?”   
She snorted. “Zevran will most likely be hunting Crows when we get back to Denerim. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Cullen, but he will not be coming with me.” She tried not to let her anxiety show about being utterly alone for the first time in her life. 

Alistair cleared his throat. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“I’m not overly fond of it either. But what must be done must be done.” She was proud of her voice remaining steady. 

“No, it mustn’t.” His voice was angry. She met his eyes and he glared at her. But then he must have seen something in her eyes because he stopped scowling and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, Moira. I shouldn’t take my anger about our circumstances out on you.” She let him pull her into a hug. And for that one brief moment, she could pretend her heart wasn’t breaking, and that she was still going to go home with her lover and king. 

She leaned back to meet his eyes. “It has to be done. I don’t want to watch you with another woman.”

“I don’t want you to have to watch me.” He sighed. “But I don’t want you to be alone, either.”

“That doesn’t really matter, Alistair.” She shrugged, and turned to lead him to the next nightmare.

After fighting their way through three more nightmares, Alistair was finally able to pull her aside again while the false dream people around them went about setting up camp. Moira watched Alistair watch the simulated dream people. The fake Zevran kept watching them from where he sharpened a blade. Everyone else ignored them. “What if I told you I told Zevran to watch out for you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I kinda figured that out, Alistair.” 

“He’s been in love with you almost as long as I have, you know.”

She frowned up at the fair-haired man. “I know. You both like to remind me. Frequently.” _No, I’m not going to take one man as a consolation prize over the other. Isn’t that what you’ve already done?_ A small voice argued with her. She knew she loved them both for entirely different reasons. The fact neither of them would ever stop their pursuit of her, no matter her choice, had been frustrating. But she’d ultimately chosen Alistair because he stopped actively pushing her away. Zevran wanted her but still did his best to keep her at arms’ length. Her choosing Alistair had led to Zevran walking away from her confrontation from Taliesin. But he hadn’t stayed away as evidenced by not letting her track down Alistair on her own. She’d begun to come to the conclusion that being alone without either of them would be preferable to this constant tug of war on her heart. Or maybe she’d be even more miserable. She didn’t know, but Alistair needed an heir, no matter what she felt.

She hoped Alistair hadn’t stopped arguing anymore because he was tired of her, though. And Zevran’s running away had hurt. A lot. All she could see was that all three of them were in pain. And it was her fault.

“Moira, I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this. But you’re right. I can’t ask you to watch me try to father an heir on another woman. And if there are darkspawn in Amaranthine, you do have to take care of it. Just... don’t go alone. Taking Zevran would be a better choice than that.” He looked down at her with those soulful hazel eyes of his and she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him she wasn’t serious, of course she wouldn’t leave. 

Instead, she squared her shoulders and told him. “I’ll think about it.” 

~*~

This had to be the fifteenth nightmare Alistair and Moira had waded through to find that irritating elf, Alistair thought. He very carefully avoided remembering Zevran’s kiss and concentrated on the petite woman walking next to him. He recognized the camp up ahead as theirs during the Blight. He glanced at Moira who shrugged and squeezed his hand reassuringly. Her words, however, were anything but. “It’s probably going to end up being the night we were attacked by shrieks.”

He grinned at her, “I’d say that one ended pretty well for both of us, don’t you?” Both exhilarated and terrified about the shrieks invading their camp, their home, and the thought of possibly losing each other, the two Grey Wardens had first made love that night. The other members of their group had assumed it had happened long before, but both had repeatedly resisted temptation until then. He knew that Zevran had known, however. How, he wasn’t sure, the elf just seemed to have a sense about these things; or perhaps it was just a sense about Moira?

Alistair knew that he had been attracted to the elf mage from that first moment in Ostagar. Her tiny form uncowed by his being a Templar by training, if not by vows, she’d actually laughed at his jokes. She’d also kept him from losing his nerve and his sanity when, in one treacherous swoop, he’d lost everything and everyone he’d ever held dear -- except for her. 

They slowly entered camp and everyone stood to stare at them, not moving. “There are already copies of us here, aren’t there,” Alistair leaned down to whisper to Moira. 

She nodded, her fingers tightening around his. She turned her head toward one of the tents, “Do you hear that?”

Alistair felt his face heat at what he heard, “I do NOT want to go into that tent.”

Moira laughed, “From the sounds of things, there are two too many people in there already.”

Alistair’s free hand covered his face, “Maker’s breath, are we going to have to drag that bloody assassin out of … a threesome? With US?” 

Moira grinned wider, “What’s the matter my love? Shy at how he imagined you?”

Alistair groaned, it was echoed by his own voice from the tent. If it was possible, he felt his face turn redder, “That is something I so do NOT want to think about.” Utterly uncomfortable, Alistair stood in the middle of their former camp, their old friends staring at them curiously but making no movement toward them. Moira kept glancing toward the tent for some reason Alistair could discern. He supposed it was curiosity. He did feel a little himself, but told himself he had absolutely no desire to see what Zevran was up to. 

Moira tugged him over to stand nearer the tent. Reluctantly, he followed, “What, you can’t hear them clearly enough over there?” he pointed.

She shook her head, “We’re safe from changing again until the fight occurs, but I don’t want to lose him. He leaves that tent, grab him.”

Alistair made a face, “But what if he’s ... _naked_.”

The love of his life glared at him, “Grab him anyway.”

The noises finally died down in the tent, replaced by sleepy murmurs. The tent flap jerked as someone untied it and a blonde head poked its way out followed by a set of muscular shoulders. Alistair stared at his doppelganger for a moment as the man scrambled to his feet. His double was shirtless, and clutching a pair of trousers he hadn’t laced with one hand. He was also, somehow, better looking than Alistair felt he himself actually was, his shoulders were broader and he was definitely more muscular. The Moira who followed him out, however, paled next to the real one, she lacked the force of personality the Warden Commander held that enhanced her beauty. DreamMoira, clutching a man’s shirt closed over her chest, bumped into dreamAlistair, moving him over a little. He caught Moira looking from him to the dream copy as if something had just struck her like a bolt of lightning. Before he could ask her about it, Zevran finally emerged, wearing nothing but trousers, thankfully laced, and a grin. Before the lithe elf could run away, which is what the expression on his face indicated he was about to do upon seeing them, Moira yanked him toward her away from the fake girl. 

With her free hand she pulled Zevran close using the waistband of his pants. His face less than an inch from hers, Alistair did his best to swallow his jealousy as Moira growled at Zevran, “Don’t you _ever_ do that to me again!” Her blue eyes searched his face as if attempting to memorize his features and she closed the distance between them, kissing Zevran roughly and angrily.


	27. Chapter 27

Zevran jerked his head away from her, but kept his hand on her shoulder, apparently not quite ready to have them disappear yet. “No!” he snarled. “You do not get to make everything all better with a kiss! You made your decision. _Again!_ ”

Moira tightened her fingers around Alistair’s hand, her other hand clenching into a fist before she grabbed hold of Zevran’s arm, letting go of his waistband. “What decision? Every time I’ve made one, one or the both of you try to talk me out of it!” She jerked her chin to the doubles who were still standing there watching them in brainless fascination. She lowered her voice and leaned into Zevran, “As a matter of fact, I’m one hundred percent certain I’m not the only one for whom you’ve got feelings!”

Zevran’s hazel eyes narrowed, “What are you talking about?”

At the same time, Alistair, shouted, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Moira resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation as that would require letting go of one of them. “You know what? I’m not going to bother. You don’t want to address the griffon in the room, I won’t either. You can’t even make up your mind about me, Zevran. Much less anyone else. You keep pushing me away. What would you do if I actually gave you what you seem to want? Withdrew even my friendship?”

His expression became one of panic with wide eyes and tight lips before he carefully schooled it to blank. But his free hand reached up and grabbed hers where it gripped his arm, his fingers tightening around hers painfully. “You wouldn’t,” his voice was low, quiet. He couldn’t look away from her.

“Why not? You can’t make up your mind, Zevran.” She shrugged, “You kiss me then run from me. And not just physically.”

“Can I just say something here?” Alistair asked, stepping closer to Moira. “I know what we talked about, my love, while we were looking for him, but are you sure that’s what you want, if he keeps running from you?” 

“I don’t know, Alistair. It’s up to him. I’m not going to offer him anything if he’ll just throw it back in my face later on.” Moira turned her full gaze to Zevran, “It may hurt you to see me with Alistair, Zevran. But it hurts me that you won’t acknowledge anything between us.”

“Uh, we’re alone here,” Alistair suddenly pointed out, before Zevran could reply.

Moira craned her neck to look around, “When the hell did it get dark?”

Zevran switched to only holding on to Moira with one hand and faced away from them, “It’s the night the shrieks attacked the camp. The only reason we survived that night, _mi amora_ , was your skill with your magical sword.”

The mage sighed, “And this Moira doesn’t have my talents in any of the nightmares we’ve seen.”

“I believe whoever’s running this has no idea what you’re capable of, my dear,” Alistair switched the hand he was holding hers with and drew his sword. 

She glanced at her hands enveloped by theirs, “Good thing I don’t actually need my hands to fight.”

Zevran grinned, his humor coming back at the prospect of a fight. He raised the back of Moira’s hand to his lips and kissed it, “We are your hands, mi amora.”

Moira looked around at the night-darkened campsite and Zevran’s lack of armor, “Somehow, I am not comforted.”

Alistair glanced at both of them, before returning his attention to the edge of the campsite, “Stay together, no matter what. These people aren’t real and they’re expendable. We’re real and neither of you are expendable.”

~*~

Moira looked up at Alistair and smiled at him before he looked away. She loved the sound of his voice when he was commanding. She also thought the small line he was developing between his eyebrows from stress over his responsibilities was adorable even if she wanted to smooth it away. She squeezed his hand reassuringly, “You’re not expendable either, my heart.” Turning back to Zevran, she caught an envious look flash across his face before he turned to watch for the incoming monsters.

When the shrieks appeared, Moira threw up three spells, Spell Might, Blizzard, and Tempest. It was difficult to do without the gestures that helped her remember the spells, but somehow she got them off before the darkspawn hit the camp. The three of them watched, warily, as the Storm of the Century spell combination kept any of the sharlocks from reaching them. It also completely slaughtered the weak simulacra of their companions. Moira tried very hard not to look at the corpse of the dreamPerrin. Alistair glanced down at her as she looked back up at him, unshed tears in her eyes. He sheathed his sword and used that arm to pull her into a comforting embrace. She felt Zevran do the same on her other side and he whispered, “Just remember, _mi amora_ , the real Perrin is driving Wynne to distraction in an inn in Val Dorma.” She took a deep breath and nodded. 

The world suddenly shifted around them, the three of them hanging on to each other tightly, the dream world seeming to want to rip them apart, separate them. Twisted and pulled painfully, they were dropped suddenly in another nightmare, still locked together around Moira. Zevran landed first and somehow managed to keep Moira from getting crushed by Alistair’s heavily armored body. Alistair propped himself up and looked around, making sure to still have hold of his love’s hand. 

“I am so bloody tired of this fort. I may have it torn down when I get back to Denerim,” he told them, his voice petulant. 

Moira laughed, “But we have such good memories of this place, Alistair! Waking up naked in a jail cell, Zevran and Oghren rescuing us… fighting an archdemon….” Her voice trailed off as something occurred to her. When the men got ready to try to stand up, she pulled them back to her. “That’s it! That’s why we’re here!”

Zevran took advantage of her position reclining against him since she wouldn’t let him up to wrap his arms around her shoulders languidly, still keeping the fingers of one of his hands interlaced with hers, “What are you thinking in that remarkably wonderful twisty mind of yours, _mi amora_?”

Alistair leaned back on his free hand to stare at her, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Each of our dreams came back here, repeatedly, right?”

Zevran shrugged. “I don’t know why mine did. I was never brought along on this particular suicide mission,” he said, annoyed.

Craning her head around to look at her fellow elf, she said, “But you know everything that happened, including why we’re both still alive. And you also figured out that whoever put us here has no clue what I can do.”

“And you‘ve realized you can change things in here, right?” Alistair added.

Zevran’s eyes widened, “Are you telling me we’re supposed to get fed up watching each other die against that thing and show them all the truth?” 

Moira nodded. “I haven’t figured out how they’re watching, though. All I know is, this isn’t the real Fade.”

~*~

“Jowan! Why, by Andraste’s Arse, am I utterly unsurprised to see you here?” Cullen snarled. The nearly two years since Jowan’s escape from the Circle Tower hadn’t been kind to the pathetic mage. His dark hair was stringier than Cullen remembered and his beady eyes were shadowed by dark circles. He appeared to have some sort of rash on his neck. His floor length robes were stained and wrinkled, the nails where he clutched at Cullen’s forearm were bitten to the quick and none too clean.

Jowan turned pale and swallowed around the blade at his throat, “What are you doing here, Cullen?”

“What does it look like we’re doing? You’ve kidnapped the king of Ferelden!” The petite dwarven woman told the captive mage before Cullen could say anything. “And now, you’ve got the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden trapped, too!”

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” Jowan told them, his voice breaking, his pallor making the dark circles under his eyes look like bruises.

“Guess what? It did, you filthy little maleficar. Let. Them. Out.” Cullen ordered, slowly.

“I—I can’t. I’m not the one controlling the spell,” the skinny mage flapped his hands uselessly.

“You and I both know that doesn’t matter, Jowan!” Cullen told him, his voice as cold and as forceful as he could make it. The ex-Templar wanted nothing more than to gut the escaped blood mage, but held himself in check. As long as there was a chance Jowan could release Moira and the others, he’d live. “Also? I believe you’re lying.” 

Jowan swallowed again, “N—no, I’m not.”

Cullen stared into Jowan’s eyes, trying to figure out how Moira ever tolerated this weasel as a friend. She was the only mage Cullen would probably never be able to kill. She was the only mage he hoped he never had to try. And this was the man she once called brother? He grabbed the mage’s greasy hair in his gauntleted fist and keeping his dagger at his throat, dragged the lighter man around in front of him toward where Moira had collapsed on top of Zevran and Alistair. He ignored the surge of jealousy at the sight, and used his grip on the mage’s hair to hold him over the glyph on the floor. He positioned his foot so that he could sweep Jowan’s legs out from under him without being trapped by the glyph himself. 

Leaning into the mage’s ear, he snarled, “Get them out of that, or I’ll drop you into it with them. I doubt, with how angry Moira was at the state of her king when we got here, that she’ll be glad to see you,” he didn’t know why, but he erred on the side of caution and didn’t mention their real relationship, what he’d been able to guess, at least. She and the elf had taken care to present Moira’s mission to rescue Alistair as one for the Chancellor looking for her King, not a woman and the man she loved. But she and the assassin were too on edge together to actually be lovers or even just friends themselves and the only reason he could think of for that tension would be that she belonged to someone else. It figures she’d have attracted a king. “She might even kill you on sight!” He dragged Jowan’s face around to snarl in it. “I thought you cared about her! I thought you were her friend! Your actions, from the day you sent her after YOUR phylactery,” he shook the man at the pronoun, ignoring the wince crossing the mage’s jaundiced face, “sent her to hell and back, and those are the only two men who stood by her!” He heard Shale clear her throat behind him, but ignored her; he was making a point, after all. “And you’ve endangered her and them.” He leaned Jowan back over the glyph, “Think carefully, Jowan.”

“All-all right, I’ll let them out. I need…. lyrium… first. This spell – it takes a lot.” He could feel Jowan tremble under his grip. But before he could reply, the sound of Shale’s sword clearing the sheathe on her back alerted him to trouble. He wasn’t distracted enough, however, to take his attention from Jowan.

“Shale, what’s wrong?” He demanded.

“We have company, Templar,” Shale announced and he heard her footsteps backing toward him. 

Snarling, he stepped away from the glyph and hauled Jowan around, the knife still at the mage’s throat to see who had arrived. A short female mage, her raven hair cut back off her pointed ears entered the cell. Her grey robes barely rustled as she glided into the narrow, poorly lit chamber. “That really isn’t necessary, Templar. Neither one of us wanted this spell to work correctly in the first place. And it’s not.”

“What are you talking about?” Shale demanded, her sword held out defensively at the newcomer mage.

“We’re the only ones able to maintain this spell, dwarf. The only ones with the knowledge. And neither of us wanted it to succeed in its purpose.” The petite mage’s voice was calm, tender even. But her eyes, her eyes were angry, bitter.

Cullen looked at Jowan, the skinny mage nodded, “I stalled as long as I could. They even made me a Grey Warden to force me to do this. I had no choice.” Cullen shoved the mage away. Jowan stumbled a few steps until he got his feet under him. He turned, straightening his robes. “They took me from the Circle Tower because I’d been working on this spell to question maleficar for the Templars.”

Cullen glanced at the glyph on the floor, “How does it work?”

The elven mage stepped forward, “It’s only supposed to work on mages, but we had to adapt. It puts them in a dream state and leads them to correct events or actions when we present the wrong ones.”

“How do you know when they’ve done it? Fixed something,” Shale asked, lowering her sword.

“The original spell called for us to be in there with them, watching,” Jowan said.

“But that’s your trick, isn’t it? You’re not in there, so how do they know?” Cullen said. “Why would the Grey Wardens do this? And why would they make you one of them, Jowan, to do this?” 

“Well, he’s not technically one, yet,” the woman told him. “They poisoned him. He’s dying from darkspawn taint that can only be cured by The Joining.”

Shale sheathed the sword and walked over to Jowan, “Get down here and let me see you,” she demanded. The mage knelt and the small warrior turned his face this way and that and pried open his eyes, then yanked the collar of his robes down to show more of what Cullen had thought a rash. In reality it was a patch of open sores. “I thought its liver was just going bad. That’s taint, all right.” She released Jowan and he stood back up. Shale walked back over to stand by Cullen.

“All right, I get why you’d want to help Moira, Jowan, and why you wouldn’t want to betray your king, but what are you getting out of this, ser mage?”

The elf mage straightened to her full height, “I knew his father.” Her face softened as she looked at Alistair, “You may call me Fiona.”


	28. Chapter 28

Alistair opened his eyes, blinking painfully against the torchlight. He could feel two weights on his legs, roughly Moira- and Zevran-sized, but he still couldn’t feel his fingers and he could barely feel his arms where they were stretched out and held rigid by the shackles. He squinted and saw Moira open her eyes, then quickly cover them with her gauntleted hands and groaned. He felt the Zevran weight lift off his lower legs and the assassin stumbled over to squint at the chains still holding Alistair’s arms in the air. 

“As . . . interesting. . . as the sight of you tied up is, Alistair,” the elf told him, glancing at him with a slight leer as he worked to pick the lock holding the king’s right arm, “I’m afraid I’d rather you bathed first.” Alistair felt his face heat and then all thoughts of any retort he might have planned died on his lips as Zevran freed his hand. Fire surged from his shoulder to his fingertips and his breath hissed out from between his teeth in pain. Gently, Zevran laid the numb arm in his lap and crossed over to the other shackle. But not before pausing to make sure he brushed his hips against Alistair’s face causing him to jerk his head backward and hit it on the stone wall.

“Zevran, stop playing with Alistair and hurry up. We have a problem,” Moira’s voice was muffled by the fact that the elf was still standing, straddling the Grey Warden’s hips; Alistair hadn’t noticed when her slight weight left his legs, thanks to Zevran’s attempts to irritate him. He wondered what the problem was, but before he could ask, Zevran shifted his weight and brushed against Alistair’s face again. The feeling had begun to return to his free arm so he reached up and roughly placed his hand on the other man’s leather clad stomach and shoved. 

He was rewarded with Zevran’s grunt, but the assassin took the hint and climbed off him, still working at the lock. “One moment, _mi amora_. Our dear Alistair wanted to play back. And this lock is being very stubborn.”

Glaring up at the elf, Alistair retorted, “Haven’t you got that lock done yet? And here I thought you were good with your hands.” 

As a reply, Zevran released the cuff and allowed Alistair’s numbed hand to drop to the floor. Stabbing knives joined the fire racing from his fingers to his shoulder. Ignoring the pain, Alistair lunged to his feet. Zevran had pushed him too far this time, friendship or no. As he reached his feet that Maker forsaken elf grinned at him. In answer, Alistair threw himself at the other man, catching the assassin in the stomach with his shoulder, slamming him up against the wall. Sinewy arms wrapped around his shoulders, trying to twist him around, a sly elf voice in his ear, “Why, Alistair, I didn’t know you felt this way! Won’t our Moira be jealous?” 

In reply, Alistair merely growled and used his greater strength to break the assassin’s hold. But before he could step back to punch the older man, Zevran suddenly wasn’t there and Alistair found his legs swept out from under him and was flat on his back with the elf’s knees pinning the biceps of both arms. Zevran leaned down, his hazel eyes meeting Alistair’s unblinking. Afraid he was going to be kissed again, Alistair arched his back and threw Zevran off him, the lighter man somersaulting over his head to land flat on his back. Alistair used his momentum to regain his feet but before he could attack the assassin again, he felt a familiar slim cool hand on his arm and looked over to see Moira silently staring up at him, worry in her wide blue eyes. His rage fled immediately and he turned and bent to bury his face against her neck. He wrapped his arms around her, tangling his hands in her raven hair. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll never die on me again. Promise me I’ll never have to see that again.”

Moira’s arms went around Alistair’s shaking shoulders, her ungloved fingers curling in his unkempt hair. She knew it was a false promise, they were doomed to go into the Deep Roads together, after all, but she whispered against his ear, “Of course. I promise, my love.”

“I really wish you weren’t wearing armor, right now,” he said, teasingly, and he knew he was chasing his own fears away with humor again.

“I really wish you could take a bath,” she replied, kissing his ear. His skin tingled as she chuckled against his neck and released a healing spell over him, her breath against his sensitive skin there giving him goosebumps. His arms tightened automatically, relieved to finally hold her for real instead of in some dream. He straightened up, taking a deep breath. They both turned to see Zevran still flat on his back on the grimy floor, his eyes closed. Moira crouched down, “Are you done teasing him, Zev?”

He cracked one eye open to look at Moira, “That depends, do I get such an embrace as a reward for releasing your beloved?” 

Moira glanced from Alistair, who shrugged and looked away, his face blank, to Zevran and held her hand out to the incorrigible assassin. For a moment, he appeared to be considering pulling her down on top of him, but she quirked an eyebrow at him in warning; she was wearing plate armor, after all, and they weren’t alone. Reluctantly, he allowed her to pull him to his feet, but yanked her into his arms when he stood up. Imitating Alistair’s posture, but on the other side of her neck, he demanded, “I want you to promise me the same thing. I never want to see you die again.” 

As Alistair watched, Moira shivered at Zevran burying his face in her neck. Uncomfortable with the embrace in front of Alistair, however, she merely nodded against Zevran’s neck where he’d tucked her head. Zevran shivered convulsively as Moira must’ve kissed his neck and his fingers tightened in her hair. She raised her head from Zev’s embrace when Alistair gently put his hand on the back of her head and she looked at up him, questioningly, “I believe you should introduce me, _my dear_.” He glanced at the four people in the door way, his emphasis on his endearment for her quite clear in its warning. He’d gotten over his anger at Zevran and his fear for her, or at least shoved them both in the back of his mind and had put back on the cloak of command of the King of Ferelden and Grey Warden Lieutenant. 

Moira stepped away from Zevran, who reluctantly released her and Alistair saw her force herself to do the same thing, mentally pulling the mantle of the Commander of the Grey around herself. “You remember Cullen, Alistair? The Templar who was imprisoned in the Circle Tower by the maleficars?” Cullen knelt in the presence of his king and Alistair’s nodded his acknowledgment as she continued, “And Jowan, the mage who attempted to poison Arl Eamon at Loghain’s behest?” Jowan’s drop into a posture of obeisance was less graceful than Cullen’s but no less heartfelt. Despite his control, Alistair felt his rage surface when confronted by the would-be murderer of his foster father and half the town of Redcliffe. 

Puzzled, Alistair wondered why Moira grinned before giving her next introduction. She looked at the dwarva, “And I know you’d never forget Shale of House Cadesh. “ 

Alistair’s reaction was priceless. Astonishment richocheted through him and the petite dark-haired warrior grinned at Alistair’s dropped jaw and widened eyes, “It was expecting someone else, perhaps?” 

Before Shale could react, the king had pulled her into a bear hug, exclaiming, “I can’t believe it! You’re… you!” 

He could almost hear Moira exchange an amused glance with Zevran, who drawled, “And he’s usually so eloquent.”

He glanced back at the two elves and saw that Moira’s eyes were drawn back to the doorway. Another mage stepped forward as Shale squirmed out of Alistair’s hug, looking very irritated. Before Shale could tell Alistair what she thought of such public displays of affection, the older elf mage put her hand on the king’s shoulder, and said, “My name is Fiona. I believe I could be your mother. “

Moira froze in astonishment as did Zevran beside her. Alistair rocked back on his heels, his stomach dropping into his boots, where he crouched in front of Shale, staring up at the other raven haired elf mage. Jowan and Cullen both gasped. Alistair regained his voice first, “I – I believe you must be mistaken.” His voice cracked, “I – my mother was a chambermaid in Redcliffe Castle.”

The woman gave him an amused glance, “And how many bastards did Maric have? I’m quite certain I gave him at least one.”

Alistair stood up and retreated to stand next to Moira, “I – have a sister, too.” He needed distance in the worst way.

Moira glanced up at him and pointed out, her voice as gentle as she could make it, “You have a golddigging harridan who agreed she was your sister when you showed up on her doorstep wealthy from adventuring, my heart.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zevran step up next to Alistair and demand, “And what, pray tell, do you have to gain by claiming to be the mother of a king?” Alistair blinked at Zevran’s reminder that the mysterious woman could be just another opportunist like Goldanna.

The woman curtsied, “I wish asylum in Ferelden with its Grey Wardens after I help you all to escape.”

~*~

Alistair mulled over the strange mage’s proposition and her claim to be his mother as he followed Moira through the corridors of the Keep, led by Fiona. The Commander of the Grey had taken one look at Jowan and stormed off to find the Joining Ritual Draught and possibly the First, if he was unlucky enough to get in the enraged Arcane Warrior’s path. He’d also been astonished to see Cullen simply fall in behind them without protest. He’d glanced at Zevran who’d looked back at Cullen briefly, catching Alistair’s unspoken question. “He was averse to taking her orders at first, but after I ‘discussed’ it with him, and she beat it into his thick skull, he realized she wasn’t the little girl he used to guard any more. And that she wasn’t going to wake up one day and become an abomination,” Zevran explained, his voice pitched low. The two men paused, letting the others go ahead of them. 

His voice pitched equally low, Alistair asked, “Let me guess, he didn’t like taking orders from a mage.”

Zevran snorted softly, then met Alistair’s eyes, his anger blazing out of their hazel depths as they resumed walking. “That wasn’t his problem.” Alistair looked at Zevran, confused. Zevran sighed, “Remember what you said in that dream? About him having an unhealthy fascination for her? It’s true and he still does, though Isabella did her best to make him forget Moira, she did not succeed. She just gave his obsession an outlet, taught him about men and women and frankly, I’ve been waiting for him to try something with her to use his newfound knowledge.”

Alistair glared daggers at the back of Cullen’s head as they walked. But a thought occurred to him and he glanced down at the shorter man, “And what of you, have you tried anything?”

Zevran sighed, “You do ask the most ridiculous questions, Alistair. Despite her uncanny beauty and grace and prowess on the battlefield, I have guarded your lady’s virtue with my life. I cannot say I have not been tempted by those sweet lips, but we’ve remained chaste, my friend. Neither of us are cheats. And as for our former Templar friend, I don’t know that he would have that much restraint. If I had not been with her, I’m fairly certain she’d have had to kill him by now.”

Alistair clenched his jaw in anger. Sore and weak and currently unarmed though he was, he was tempted to take some of his anger out on the recruit. But no, as they’d discussed on that road to Lothering so long ago, she was the leader in this instance and the recruit, whatever his failings, was hers to deal with. He turned his attention to that milksop, Jowan, and felt his stomach curdle in an entirely different kind of rage.

How could she be so forgiving of that . . . rodent? His actions laid the path for the slaughter of an entire village and left a boy wide open to corruption by a demon. Not to mention it was the man’s duplicity that got Moira condemned to a short, harsh life as a Grey Warden to begin with! Of course, she’d only told him about Jowan after Redcliffe, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to track the weasel down and kill him himself.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to regain control of his temper. He needed to trust the woman he loved with her recruits and let her deal with them as she saw fit. He watched her walk ahead of everyone with the woman who claimed to be his mother. Though, to be fair, she said she might be his mother, not that she definitely was. If she was telling him the truth about Maric giving her a child, that means he had another brother floating around somewhere. One that was half-elf, to boot. Unless, he himself was that child. That would mean he was half-elven. _That little revelation should really make the Landsmeet happy_ , he thought to himself. _A bastard and half-elven king with an elf mistress._

“All right, I’ll leave them up to her. Thank you for keeping her safe,” he told the smaller man.

Zevran glared up at him, “I didn’t do it for you, your majesty.”

Somehow, Zevran made that title sound like the gravest of insults. Alistair winced and told him, “Well, for whatever reason, thank you.” Zevran merely made a rude sound. 

Alistair glanced down at the elf. “If you dislike me so much, why the hell did you kiss me?” he demanded in a low voice, hoping Shale who walked right in front of them wouldn’t hear.

Without looking at him, Zevran replied, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He then dropped back to walk behind Alistair, ending all possibility of conversation, though the king continued to feel Zevran’s eyes boring into the back of his head. He hurried to catch up to Shale, a little unnerved by the elf’s moodiness.


	29. Chapter 29

Moira glanced behind her to see Zevran bringing up the rear, glaring at the back of Alistair’s head. She was getting really tired of the both of them being children. All right, they weren’t being children, they were being possessive men. If she chose one, the other would continue his pursuit of her, despite Zevran’s assertion that he’d leave. They’d proven it already by their actions in the past.

As she walked next to Fiona, she was glad the woman had finally fallen silent. She’d been giving Moira a guided tour of the parts of the keep as they passed them on the way to wherever it was they kept the Joining Draught. Jowan stumbled along behind her, Cullen keeping him from falling on his face every so often. It was hard to believe the man had lasted this long with that poison in him. Jowan was stronger than most gave him credit for, but then, she knew that. Growing up, he’d been her constant defender and best friend. He didn’t care that she was an elf, he didn’t care that she was powerful and very good at spells, he didn’t care, he was always just there for her. And in return, she’d tried to be there for him. Up to and including breaking his phylactery so that he could have a chance at the freedom she never would. She was too powerful to be let off her leash, even if it chafed. Not for the first time, she wondered if she could break into the vault in Denerim and steal her own phylactery. Surely with Zevran’s assistance, it wouldn’t be too difficult. 

She wouldn’t destroy it, though. She’d give it to the one person she trusted to actually stop her if she went off the deep end, and let that thirst for power she often felt within her consume her. The one she knew could track her and stop her, unless, of course, she managed to drag him off the deep end with her. She glanced back at Alistair, caught a glare from Zevran and jerked her head around quickly to make sure she didn’t run into anything. That shirt Alistair wore was little better than rags at this point and she still wanted to rip it the rest of the way off him. The interlude in the dream trap, or whatever it was, had not sated her at all. She glanced back again and this time, actually met his eyes. The corners of his mouth quirked upward and she knew he knew what she was thinking. She pulled her gaze away from his, reluctantly. She needed to pay attention to where she was going.

Fiona paused in front of a doorway, bringing Moira out of her thoughts. The door was a solid mass of wood, reinforced with dwarven-made steel , pitted and chipped, but smoothed by age. “The stores of the Joining Ritual are in here.” Fiona put her hand on the thick wood. She looked at Cullen and Jowan, “There is no return when you enter this room, sers. You either join, or you die.”

Moira watched as Jowan stood straighter and away from leaning on Cullen. “Thirty years is better than three days,” he told her.

Cullen shrugged, “I have nothing else. And I’ve already sworn I would do this.”

Fiona looked down at the dwarf woman, “And you? Will you be joining our brotherhood?”

Shale snorted, “By the Stone, no. If I want to slaughter darkspawn without hope of surviving, I’ll go join the Legion of the Dead.”

The older elf mage bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment, then looked at Zevran, “And what of you, _lethallin_?” 

“Alas, no. I’m to remain an outsider to the Grey Wardens,” Zevran replied, looking pointedly at Moira. Moira rolled her eyes in exasperation but didn’t comment on Zevran’s self-pitying remark. Moira thought the overly familiar form of address for Zevran odd, but she supposed he did look Dalish with the tattoo on his cheek.

Fiona nodded, “Then I will need the two of you to wait out here. You cannot witness this.” 

Zevran stared at Moira, waiting for her to disagree with the other mage. Grudgingly, Moira nodded, she wasn’t happy about being separated either. With a glare in her direction, Zevran took up a post on one side of the door and Shale leaned against the wall on the other side. The Commander of the Grey looked at her elven friend, sadly. She knew it wasn’t the Grey Warden-ship he wanted, though, it was the assurance that would come with the Joining that she or Alistair wouldn’t send him away. Neither of them would do that, but it was difficult to convince the former Crow that he would always have a home with them. Even if he and Alistair currently wanted to pound each others’ faces in. Shaking her head sadly, Moira followed Alistair and the two recruits into the room. The door shut behind them and she heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy wooden bar slamming down. She would have objected, but the words died on her lips as she noticed there were quite a few more people in the room than just herself and her three companions, one of whom was unarmed. 

Her eyes focused on the imposing figure the other elf mage had crossed to stand near. He was tall, perhaps taller than Alistair, and much older, but his shoulders were unbowed with whatever age he claimed. He must be close to his Calling, she thought. One eye lay white and useless under a heavy scar who’s original wound had nearly split his head open. His iron grey hair hung long in a thick braid over his shoulder, and his similarly colored beard was braided dwarven-style. 

“You must be the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden and the King of Ferelden, if I’m not mistaken,” the large man said, his bass voice startling in the silence. He nodded to both Moira and Alistair. “I am Nikolai Koenig. I am the First of the Grey. And I’m afraid you are not going anywhere.” Moira froze as a dagger was placed against her neck, the blade cutting slightly into her skin.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, Ser Keonig?” Moira demanded, holding very still. She felt someone bind her hands tightly behind her.

“I’m getting answers, Commander.”

Moira saw Alistair’s eyes flick toward her, then back to the First, “This is hardly the best way to ensure our cooperation, Ser Koenig.”

The grey haired man grinned, predatorily. “I really think it is the best way to ensure your cooperation, your majesty.” Moira felt her head pulled back tighter and the knife cut into her throat, causing her to cry out before she could silence herself. She didn’t want Zevran and Shale rushing into this mess, too.

“It seems our little dream trap didn’t work on you, King Alistair. Why is that?” He walked over to Jowan who leaned weakly on the table in the middle of the room. He sized the sickened mage up and almost faster than she could see, the bigger man drew his fist back and punched Jowan in the kidney. Cullen winced, but made no move to help his brother recruit. Jowan yelled and slumped onto the table, curling protectively around the injured side of his body. 

Moira followed the older man with her eyes, warily. When he hit Jowan, she’d jerked against the knife again, hissing in pain. She could feel Alistair’s eyes on her, looking for an opening in her captor’s guard. “Tell me your questions then. I can’t give you answers to questions I don’t have.”

“What happened to Riordan?” Fiona asked from where she perched in the corner, watching Alistair cautiously.

“I told you, he slew the Archdemon!” Alistair told her. From his tone, it must’ve been the hundredth time he’d given that answer.

“Why don’t I believe you?” the First demanded.

Cullen interjected, “Hurt her, and so help me, Andraste wouldn’t be able to save you.”

The tough old warrior laughed at him then punched him in the jaw. Cullen collapsed over the table, spitting blood. “Are you fucking your commander, too? Is that a recruitment bonus, Moira? Join the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, fuck our Commander?”

“Why, you jealous, Koenig? I noticed your elf mage is getting a little long in the tooth. Looking for a replacement, are you?” Moira grated out. The hand holding her hair yanked tighter. The thuggish Warden holding on to her, pulled until her back arched as much as the plate mail would allow. The thug licked along the side of her face, keeping his eyes on Alistair the whole time. Moira shuddered as Alistair made a move toward her, but was halted by a glowing glyph of a paralysis rune cast by Fiona. 

“And here you were claiming I was your son,” Alistair grated out through his immobile jaw. 

“No son of mine would compromise his duty over a woman,” Fiona retorted.

Disappointment surged through Moira along with her terror and anger. So, these were the much revered Anderfels Wardens. The best of the best, supposedly. An order so used to ruling, they no longer policed themselves. They were supposed to stop a Blight at all costs, but they left Ferelden to rot in its Blight. If this is what the Ferelden Wardens would come to with her and Alistair ruling the country as they did, then she needed to resign as Chancellor the moment they were back in Denerim. And maybe Alistair should abdicate in favor of that racist, power hungry pustule Anora, too. Anything to keep their order from devolving into this morass of corruption and neglect.

“What duty? We ended the Blight with only three Wardens! You left us to fight an Archdemon with only three of us!” Moira shouted. 

The First walked over to Moira, ignoring Cullen and Jowan where they stood nursing their injuries. Cullen tensed as if to take advantage of being underestimated, but Moira caught his eye and barely shook her head in the negative. They had no guards on them at the moment other than the archers sitting in the rafters above, it needed to stay that way. There was at least one other Warden behind Moira and her current captor. “The reports we received state that Riordan fell to his death from the back of the Archdemon during the Battle of Denerim. Exactly how could he have slain the Archdemon then?”

“Your reports are wrong! He was there on the top of Fort Drakon with us!” Moira’s scalp was on fire from the grip the thug had on her hair. Everything rode on them buying this story. “The one who fell to his death was a qunari! His mission was just to wound the dragon to make it unable to fly and he succeeded!”

The First stood looming over her, “A qunari? Fight with the Grey? And you honestly expect me to believe this? What was his name?”

“The only ‘name’ he ever gave us was Sten, his rank,” Moira put all the strain she was feeling in her voice, hoping it added truth to her story. “The Blight threatens the qunari as much as it does the other races! Or have you not yet seen an Ogre? Why shouldn’t he help?”

She heard the door splinter under a heavy blow and the sound of two knives striking fleshy targets. The two archers in the rafters fell to the floor, a black handled throwing knife buried to the hilt in each of their necks. The hand of the thug suddenly released her hair and Cullen let out his will in a Cleansing burst that removed the Paralysis glyph around Alistair. Before Fiona could counter attack, Moira had her frozen in place with Winter’s Grasp. Zevran held Starfang to the First’s neck. Shale cut Moira’s bonds and Alistair crossed to the First. The tall fair-haired man sneered at the older Grey Warden, “And they call you the First? Apparently there’s no real skill to the job.”

Zevran forced the Grey Warden to his knees at Moira’s gesture. Leaning in as close as she could stand, she lowered her voice and demanded, “The Grey Wardens of Ferelden are now autonomous. They are not under your jurisdiction. You cannot call us to heel any more, Koenig. You refused to help us in our time of need and so we solved our problems ourselves. And now you want to pass judgment on how we ended a Blight before it spread to other nations? With only three Wardens? Two of us who were so green, we didn’t even know how to kill an archdemon in the first place?”

The old man spit at her. “You want the Ferelden Wardens to be autonomous? Hah! Be my guest. The next Blight’s all yours.”

Moira pulled her lips back from her teeth, ferally. “And we’ve got the stockpile of Archdemon blood, and I can close down most of your lyrium supplies very quickly.”

The old man blinked, “Now wait a minute.”

“Ah, we have a bargaining position,” Alistair said, his smile turning as deadly as Moira’s. 

“Alistair, please ask your supposed mother to get the Joining for Jowan and Cullen,” Moira said. Alistair complied, Cullen dragging Jowan along to back him up.

“So, now that we have your chief by the short and curlies, mi amora,” Zevran asked, nudging the First’s chin with Starfang, “what do you really want?”

“Now, isn’t that the question? The Wardens of Ferelden, all two of us,” Alistair snorted from where he was watching over Fiona, “want to be left alone. We want to conduct ourselves as Grey Wardens and recruit our brethren and not be held to account for our actions from such as you.” 

The old man clenched his teeth at her, “What. Did. You. Do?”

“Send everyone out except Alistair and Zevran and I’ll tell you.” Moira looked down at her gauntleted hands, then over her shoulder at Alistair who met her eyes and shrugged. Koenig gestured his assent. “Cullen, take Jowan and the other Wardens out to the hall and close the door. Shale, go with them.” Fortunately, there were only two captive Wardens and Shale and Cullen got them out into the hall quickly. 

When it was just the First, Fiona, Zevran, Alistair and Moira in the room, the younger elf mage said, “I convinced the man that I loved to sleep with my best friend and impregnate her so that the archdemon’s soul would inhabit her child. Because we only had three Wardens to stand against the Blight.”


	30. Chapter 30

Zevran held his breath, waiting for the First’s reaction. He held himself tense, the blade pressed against the First’s throat. He expected rage, accusations, anger, at the very least. He did not expect the rusty sound that actually emanated from the grizzled warrior. He met Alistair’s eyes as the king spun to look at them in surprise. “I see Flemeth finally found a patsy for her desperate plan.”

Shock passed over Moira’s face, her beautiful features quickly schooling themselves back into what he thought of as her Commander face – the blank, politely attentive expression she wore when she was thinking furiously about her next move. She usually ended up three or even ten moves ahead of her opponent sometimes, which was possibly the most attractive thing about her. She rounded on the captive First and hissed, “Really? So you were aware there was a demon infested witch lurking about the Wilds with an offer too good to refuse to Wardens in an untenable position?” 

The First winced as Zevran allowed the sword to slip against his neck just a little, “Did you think we had no records from the last Blight? Every First has kept a detailed account of his tenure since the defeat of the first archdemon. Yes, we knew of Flemeth’s offer. We did not, however, know where she was currently hiding since The Witch of The Wilds is a tale told in every country with the location of the Wilds always being the nearest stand of old trees. We also had no way of predicting Ostagar or Duncan’s demise.”

Zevran watched his Warden as she processed the information. Annoyance flickered across her features, and with a dismissive wave of her hand, said, “Release him, Zevran. I doubt he’s going to cause trouble, now.” She stood up and began pacing. 

“What do you intend to do about your ‘error?’” Koenig asked as Zevran stepped back and allowed him to stand. The older Grey Warden was looking at Alistair.

The king shrugged, “That’s not my decision. It’s my child, yes, as much as a possible abomination can be anyone’s child, but I will abide by what Moira decides.”

“Flemeth will twist that child and destroy Thedas with it!” Koenig snarled. 

Moira stopped pacing and laughed, “And that’s where you’re wrong and where we’re right.”

Angrily, Koenig turned to her, “Have you gone mad?”

Zevran suddenly laughed, too, seeing where Moira was going. “Ah, my sly Warden. Do you truly think your gamble will have a happy end?”

Moira, still grinning, shrugged. “As much as anything in this twisted world can, yes.” She sobered and turned to regard Koenig. “Flemeth is dead. At least, as dead as a thing like her can be.” A small box clattered to the floor as Fiona turned at Moira’s news.

“She’s . .. dead?”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the older elf mage coldly, “Turned herself into a dragon to try to stop us, too. I may not have liked Morrigan, but no one deserves the fate her mother had planned for her.”

Koenig’s eyebrows went up, “Flemeth had a daughter?” 

“That she did,” Zevran interjected, “And a very treacherous one at that. But I suppose, in the end, she meant well.”

Koenig glanced at the Antivan, “What do you mean?”

Moira sighed, “The ritual was performed by her very human daughter. From what Morrigan and I could figure out, Flemeth either stole a girl child or bore one when she started to reach a certain age. She would then do her best to make sure the child gained enough power to equal her, but not surpass her. We think that’s why she sent Morrigan with us. If our quest didn’t kill her, it would definitely make her stronger. And I think Flemeth actually did want this Blight to end. It encroached on her territory, after all.” She resumed pacing, “Then, when the girl child was old enough and strong enough, Flemeth would weaken her willpower and flee to the new body. We don’t know what happened to the old body, or if the girl child was forced to live as a possessed person or what. We don’t even know if anything of the original Flemeth was left in the abomination that reared Morrigan. Morrigan was sent with us, knowing about the sacrifice we must make. Flemeth’s plan did not include Morrigan finding out about her … habits… and us killing her. Morrigan is raising the old god as her child.”

Koenig sat down heavily in one of the chairs at the side of the room. “I don’t care about old gods, or the Chantry’s Maker,” Alistair grinned, but shook his head at Moira’s questioning look. Koenig continued, “What did this woman hope to gain with this ritual if she did not want to do what Flemeth planned?”

Moira stopped pacing, “I think Morrigan was as honest with as she could be. She truly did want to bring an old god back in to the world. She wanted to save it.” 

Koenig turned to Alistair, “I know you were raised in the Chantry, boy. And you went along with this?”

Zevran watched the older elf mage look steadily at the man she claimed was her son, she seemed to be holding herself in suspense for the king’s answer. He knew his friend saw it, too, since he turned and looked at her as he replied to Koenig, “The Maker, or my rather questionable faith, never entered into it. This was about saving my kingdom, the one I’d just spent the last year tying together with only the will power of the woman I loved to hold it.” He looked at Koenig, Zevran felt his eyes burn as Alistair spoke, his voice resonant with the same drive that made him speak so passionately before the battle of Denerim, “I know now why we’re not supposed to hold office and be a Grey Warden. It wasn’t because I loved Moira that I did this. It wasn’t because I couldn’t lose her, though that was a factor. It was because there were only three of us and the Blight was eating Ferelden alive. My people were dying. My country was tearing itself apart. My father fought to put my country back together thirty years ago, and a Blight was taking it apart. I didn’t want to be king, but if I had to be one, I was going to be the best one I could be. If I knew I could reach that monster in time to make sure it died, I would not have hesitated. I would have taken that final blow.” 

Zevran swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He hated this man at times, and others, like now, he was worthy of being a friend. Without looking too hard at what he was feeling, he found himself walking over to stand next to his friend in the middle of the room. But not before Moira was there, her tiny hand slipping into Alistair’s larger one and she smiled sadly up at the man she loved. Zevran felt his heart break, just a little, that that smile was not for him, but he took his place on the other side of Alistair and crossed his arms to look at the First. Fiona had walked over to stand behind her leader, her hand on the back of his tall-backed chair. “But with only three of us,” Alistair continued, “How could we be sure to reach that thing in time? And if we didn’t, it would have destroyed my country. My father’s kingdom. _My_ kingdom, _my_ people. Allowing an old god to be brought back and reared by the woman Moira called ‘sister,’ seemed to be a small price.”

Koenig crossed his arms and nodded in Zevran’s direction, “Why does the elf know?”

Zevran felt Alistair place his hand on the shoulder nearest him. “He is our friend and we both felt that someone who was going to be around after we felt the Calling be aware of what we did.”

Fiona finally spoke up, unshed tears in her eyes, “Why didn’t you just notify us?”

Moira snorted, “And alert the Chantry?” 

Koenig held up a hand and glanced at the mage behind him, “She’s got a point.”

Zevran watched the older Grey Wardens warily, “So, now that you know… What now?”

Koenig looked at them, his one good eye gazing steadily, “We have a Joining to perform.”

“One question,” Moira began, “did you arrange with anyone in Denerim for this to happen? Alistair’s capture?”

Koenig frowned, “Why would we have to do that? He came willingly enough.”

Alistair frowned down at Moira, “Why do you ask, love?”

Looking up at him, she frowned, “If they weren’t helping Anora, who was? I believe your former sister-in-law is fomenting a coup in our absence.”

Koenig, “So you won’t be staying very long, then.”

~*~

“Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you.” Moira stood in front of her two recruits, her two oldest friends, as they stood ready to take their lives in their own hands and drink the foulest poison Moira had ever known. They’d moved to a grander hall for Jowan’s and Cullen’s joining. Moira held the plain golden chalice cradled in both of her small hands. “Jowan, come forward.” Her heart pounded in her chest in fear for her oldest friend. The others may not have as high opinion of him as she did, but they hadn’t been children ripped from their families and shoved into a gilded cage for something they’d been born with. Jowan’s sunken blue eyes met hers and Moira blinked away the tears threatening to spill over. _Please, Maker, don’t let him follow Daveth’s fate_ , she prayed. 

“Don’t cry, Moi. My own stupidity brought me to this,” the sickly mage said, using his childhood nickname for her. She had a sudden memory of sobbing against his shoulder when they were children, exhausted from the lessons that day, and sore from the beating she’d taken from one of her classmates because she’d dared to surpass a human. “I’m dying anyway. My life was forfeit the minute I talked you into getting my phylactery. I just regret what my stupidity did to you and to Lily.” Before she could do anything else, Jowan’s long, cool fingers took the goblet from her and he swallowed the draught. Alistair stepped forward to stand next to her, but for the first time since Ostagar, she couldn’t handle his sympathy. She stepped away from him and when Jowan clutched at his throat, gasping for air until his legs gave out, Moira collapsed to her knees with him, grabbing for one of her friend’s hands. Jowan’s eyes opened and all trace of the iris and pupil were gone for a moment. He fell over onto his back. Frantic, Moira scrambled to feel for the pulse in his neck. It was faint, but there. She exhaled the breath she had held from the minute he’d collapsed.

Wiping her eyes, she turned to Cullen who was staring wide-eyed at the collapsed mage. “He’s – he’s alive?” the recruit stammered.

She turned Cullen’s face to look at her, “Yes. And now it’s time.” Someone had retrieved the goblet and refilled it. She held Cullen’s brown eyes with her own, “Cullen, come forward.” The ex-Templar had removed his armor and wore only a simple tunic and trousers. When he touched the goblet in her hands, she felt his fingers tremble against hers. “Do not be afraid, Cullen. It will be harder if you panic.”

He swallowed and nodded. Moira watched as he summoned his resolve, closing his eyes. He took the goblet from her, but did not drink right away. He stared at her as if trying to come to a decision. He blurted out, “I love you.”

Moira knew how he felt, and knew she didn’t feel the same. She gave him the only answer she could, “I know.”

In one swift motion he drained the goblet and it fell to the ground. Moira grabbed his hand and his other went to his throat as he began to gasp for air. She met his eyes and knew the pain he was feeling, the agony of the poison speeding its way through his system. Both fell to their knees, Cullen holding Moira’s hand so tightly, she felt it going numb. But if this would help him live through this, she’d sacrifice more than a few fingers. She never should have agreed to Greagoir foisting him on her like this. He deserved to be a farmer and raise a dozen children somewhere. Not die like she will, forgotten in the depths of the earth. His eyes went blank and a loud rattling gasp wrenched from his throat and shocked her; he fell backwards, nearly dragging her with him. “Oh, maker, no, please…” frantic, she felt for his pulse, too, and slumped in relief when she felt the weak, slow beat against her finger tips. Cullen had released her hand when he collapsed and she rubbed it to get the feeling back into her fingers. 

“I hope she won’t be like this with every set of recruits,” she heard Koenig tell Alistair. 

The man she loved told the First, “She grew up with them. Give her a break, you heartless bastard.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY NSFW

Sitting in a well-stuffed, high-backed chair, Moira stared bemusedly into the fire in her room. Zevran and Shale were very vocal about not being allowed to witness the ceremony, considering the last time Moira and Alistair were in a room alone with the First. But both she and Alistair had prevailed and the dwarf and the elf waited elsewhere to hear of Cullen’s and Jowan’s fates. Afterward, The Wardens had agreed to let them shelter for the night and in the keep, letting Jowan and Cullen recover from their Joining. She was more relieved than she could express that they’d both lived. As for the news they’d shared with the First, he’d actually, grudgingly agreed that tactically, they’d had little choice if they wanted the Blight ended before it destroyed Ferelden and advanced across Thedas. After all, their job was to end a Blight _by any means necessary_. There had been too much of a chance that both of them could have died in the battles leading up to the Archdemon. He agreed to keep an eye out for someone of Morrigan’s description, but not to hunt her down. She sighed in tired contentment. Her friends were safe, the man she loved was safe, both of them, and her stomach was comfortably full from the first decent dinner she’d had in a while and she was cosily warm in the heavy white woolen dressing gown Fiona had loaned her. 

Her back was to the door, but she figured either Alistair or Zevran would be coming to see her soon. Or maybe both. That thought made something low in her abdomen tighten. She heard the door open and Alistair’s and Zevran’s voices arguing as they entered. She was about to stand up and tell them to get out if they couldn’t be civil to one another when Zevran said something that froze her in place and made her realize they couldn’t see her where she sat in the chair, the way she was sitting, with her legs tucked up underneath her to keep her bare feet warm. And Alistair probably couldn’t sense her with all the other Wardens in the Keep. “Admit it,” Zevran drawled, “You enjoyed it when I kissed you.”

She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Alistair’s voice, affronted, “I most certainly did not!” Moira held herself silent, waiting for the elf’s reply. 

She heard a footstep, then Zevran said, “Then why did you return it with such interest?”

Alistair’s voice broke, “I did no such thing!”

She heard a muffled thump and resisted the urge to peek. She wanted to see if the two of them would fix whatever was broken in their friendship first before she stepped in to complicate it. Alistair’s voice again, “Zev, I’m warning you. Get away from me!”

“Make me, _your majesty_ ,” Zevran’s voice was low, almost growling. Moira dug her fingernails into her hands to keep from peering over the side of the chair. 

“Dammit, Zev, I’m warning you.” There was another thudding sound and Alistair’s voice again, “Look, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“What if talking isn’t what I want?” The assassin was still speaking in that low voice of his, the one Moira thought made promises the elf was always happy to keep. 

“Maker’s breath, Zev! Would you just listen to me?” Alistair’s voice rose an octave on the last word. Moira wondered what Zevran had done to make him do that.

“Fine. What do you want to tell me?” Moira could hear the pout in Zevran’s voice.

“Moira and I… talked… while we were in that trap.”

“Go on.”

She could almost hear Alistair running his fingers through his short hair in frustration, “You see… I can’t be faithful to her. I have to have an heir.”

“I fail to see –“

“Would you just stop talking for a minute you bloody damned elf?” Alistair almost shouted. “She has to go to Amaranthine without me when we get back. I have to find some bloody farmer’s daughter and get an heir on her.”

“An elf not good enough to bear your children, Alistair?” She heard the harsh intake of Alistair’s breath at Zevran’s low blow. She felt tears well up in her eyes, she knew what Alistair was doing. It was what they’d discussed, after all. But discussing it dispassionately as something to do in the future and actually doing it were two very different things.

She heard Alistair sit heavily down on something, a strangled sob coming from his throat, “That was low, Zev. I want nothing more than to be the father of her children. But Grey Wardens. . . well, one of us with a normal person, the chances are slim. Two of us together . . . the chances are impossible. Moira and I can’t have children together.”

Zevran swore in Antivan and she heard him quickly cross the room to Alistair, “I am so sorry my friend. She’d hinted, but never said it outright. She just said she couldn’t have them.” 

“She can’t have them with me,” the last word was whispered. The tears fell from Moira’s eyes, she didn’t even try to hold them in. “So, I have to marry someone else and pray I beat the slightly less slim odds and give my kingdom an heir so we don’t end up right back where we started in thirty years.”

There was a pause; she imagined both men were staring at a wall, lost in thought for a moment. Zevran broke the silence, “So, my friend, what does this have to do with me?”

“You… have my blessing. With her. I want her to be happy and I can’t make her happy.”

Zevran snorted, “You’re under the impression I can?”

Alistair’s voice was miserable, “She loves you.”

“And she loves you,” Zevran’s voice was cold. “And she’s right, she no sooner chooses one of us than the other does his best to undermine it.”

“Which is making her even more miserable.” _Finally_ , she thought, _they’re getting the message!_ “But you might someday give her children,” Alistair pointed out.

“And you’ll end up winning this contest in the end,” Zevran pointed out. 

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s told me of the Calling.”

“Not the most romantic of endings, I’m afraid, Zev. She deserves better.”

“I’m beginning to believe she deserves better than both of us,” Zevran responded bitterly.

She heard Alistair stand up, “I’m going to tell her in the morning that – “

Moira couldn’t stand it anymore. If he was going to try to dump her, again, he could do it to her face and he could get it over with now. She stood up, interrupting him and walked around to the back of the chair, the white dressing gown she was wearing hiding her bare feet. “You’re going to tell me in the morning, what, Alistair?”

They both jumped, Alistair rubbed his face with his hands, while Zevran took one look at her and grinned. “Maker’s breath, Moira, you scared the hell out of me,” Alistair said. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes. Now what are you going to tell me, Alistair?”

“I-,” Alistair began and floundered. 

Moira nodded sharply. “I see.” She stepped forward, crossing her arms. “If you are both going to leave me, then do it here and now. And I will set out on my own for Amaranthine with Cullen and Jowan, after I get Perrin, of course.” A knot welled up in her throat. She swallowed it back down. Alistair refused to meet her eyes, and Zevran’s expression was greatly pained. She directed a glare at Alistair, “You have your duty to your kingdom, I know. And I accept this. I told you once, that I would take whatever your duties would allow you to share with me and I meant it.” She turned her icy gaze to Zevran, “And you. You cannot make up your mind what you want from me, can you? You would hold me close with one hand and push me away with the other.” She jerked her arms apart and made a swift cutting motion with one hand, “Well, no more. “ She pointed at Alistair, “If you’re going to leave me, leave me. “ She shifted her arm to jab at Zevran, “Same goes for you. I cannot handle being on the razor’s edge with you both anymore.”

They both stood speechless in front of her. Their silence caused the tears she’d been holding back to finally fall. With trembling hands, she wiped her eyes. “This is normally where I would make a dramatic exit, but since this is my room, I’ll thank you both to get out.”

They stood there and stared at her, neither moving nor saying anything. Sheer rage and frustration made her magic spark from fingertip to fingertip in a small electrical storm. Alistair stepped forward, “Is that what you really want, Moira? To be alone?” His voice was gentle, kind. 

Moira struggled with her anger for a moment, trying to rein it in before she set her room on fire. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, her tears trailing into her hairline, “Of course not. The two of you have my head so spun about and my heart so conflicted that to lose you both, or either, would probably be more than I can stand.” She lowered her head and opened her eyes to find that Alistair had advanced when she wasn’t looking and was standing very close to her, but not touching. “Which is why, if you’re both going to break my heart, just get it over with already.”

Looking down at her, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Maker help me, I can’t do it. I should let you go, let you move on. It would be the decent thing to do. The honorable thing.” He laughed, short and broken. “Apparently, I’m not as honorable as I thought I was.” Astonishment mingled with her pain as he knelt in front of her. He took her hands in his, “I can’t look at you and tell you I can’t see you again. I can’t face you and rip my own heart out of my chest.” He glanced behind him at Zevran, “I’d also lose a very good friend.” 

The elf’s face was closed and guarded, “What are you saying?”

“Is it cheating if we both know about the other?” Alistair asked. Moira held herself very still, he couldn’t possibly be proposing what she thought he was. They’d only discussed him stepping aside for an heir, not staying as well. It had hurt them both to consider it, but discussing it was entirely different than it actually happening.

Zevran turned to face them fully, but his arms were still crossed over his chest. “I’ll say again, what are you saying, Alistair? I want it plain and out in the open.”

Alistair turned to look at Moira, she stared down at her Grey Warden, her brother, her lover, as he said, “I don’t want to propose this if you’re not all right with it, Moira. You are not some prize to be passed around.” She closed her eyes. Was there something wrong with her that she couldn’t choose? That she kept letting them complicate her life, her heart like they did? Normal women chose one man all the time, why couldn’t she? But normal women didn’t face death on a daily basis like she did. Normal women got to have children and die of old age. Normal women wouldn’t have to force others into a bargain with poison and death like she would. Normal women didn’t lead men, armies to certain death against an ancient abomination. Normal women would never unleash an old god on the world. 

She reached out and touched Alistair’s face, “Between the two of you? I’ve never felt passed around, why would I start now?”

Alistair glanced back at Zevran, “Is that plain enough, or do I have to spell it out?”

Zevran unbuckled his sword belt and was crossing the room to Moira before Alistair finished his sentence. “You’ve been most eloquent, my friend.” But now that the moment was here, Moira read hesitation in Zevran’s posture. Alistair let go of her hands to untie the sash holding the dressing gown closed. She held out her hand to the assassin whose eyes had dipped to see what the gown concealed. It still covered her breasts, but Alistair had opened it enough to bare the flat plains of her stomach and her narrow hips, and both sets of eyes locked on the thatch of dark hair at the joining of her legs. Zevran looked up, took her hand and raised it his lips, kissing her palm at the same time Alistair’s mouth touched her navel. The shock to her lower abdomen was immediate and if Alistair hadn’t been holding her upright, his hands on her hips, she would have collapsed, her knees went that weak. Zevran was at her shoulders next, pulling the neckline of the gown off, letting it pool at her feet, and gently kissed along her shoulders, his mouth leaving trailing bits of fire behind. She turned her head to the elf, capturing his mouth with hers and kissing him as thoroughly as she could. His hands crept around to cup her bare breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples, at the same time as Alistair pushed her legs apart and cupped her rear end with his big hands. Zevran held her in their kiss, his tongue plunging into her mouth, teasing hers as Alistair’s mouth moved over her, licking her. He lifted her and put her legs on either side of his head, still supporting her hips with his hands. Zevran moved so that more of her weight was taken by his arms. Alistair’s tongue slid between her legs, and began to stroke her, long and slow, pushing against her folds until he found what he sought. He swirled his tongue around her and Moira trembled, her toes curling helplessly. She arched her back and held on to Zevran with one arm while the other hand entwined itself in Alistair’s short hair.

Moira moaned against Zevran’s mouth as Alistair, with practiced ease, twisted his tongue a certain way and he slid his fingers inside her. Warmth spread from her center, a lightning storm arcing along her nerve endings as Alistair brought her for the first time that night. She felt Zevran grin against her mouth as Alistair licked her, continuing her aftershocks. She felt herself finally stop trembling and was disappointed when Alistair set her on her feet and stood up. Zevran broke away from her to look at the taller man, a great deal of heat in his gaze. Alistair pulled his shirt off over his head and threw it behind him. Zevran’s hands left her breasts and traveled lower, pressing against her hips until she was tight against him, his erection pushing through his clothing against her ass. He said, his voice low, “Alistair, I want to taste her on you.” Alistair grinned at Moira and she knew this kiss wasn’t for Zevran, it was for her. Alistair placed his hands on her breasts, her nipples pinched between his sword calloused fingers. She ran hers over his chest, playing with the light dusting of hair across his pectoral muscles and down his abdomen and watched as he lowered his mouth the other man’s. Zevran chose that moment to plunge his fingers inside her and she cried out, arching her back and pressing her ass tighter into Zevran’s hips and her breasts against Alistair’s hands. 

Her eyes on their joined lips, she stared at them and realized Alistair had allowed Zevran’s tongue in his mouth. Fingers trembling, her eyes locked on their kiss, she frantically tugged at Alistair’s belt and then the ties of his trousers, Zevran’s fingers and their kiss distracting her from all coherent thought. She eased Alistair’s pants down over his hips and wrapped her small hands around him, causing him to gasp and pull away from Zevran. He grinned down at her, then glanced at Zevran. “Someone here is wearing far too many clothes.” She looked behind her at the man still holding her ass against him, his fingers still exploring her, skillfully sending shocks of electrical pleasure through her, languidly sending her toward another release. Grinning at the elf who was now staring at her hungrily, she twisted her hips, rubbing her ass against his erection. When no one moved, Moira released Alistair and stepped away from both of them, reluctantly separating herself from the elf’s skillful fingers. Swaying her hips, she walked over the large bed in the middle of the room and climbed up it, stopping to glance over her shoulder at them to make sure they were watching. Their eyes were locked on her ass as, grinning, she turned and reclined on the bed, her arms propping her up, her legs partially open, one leg bent. Alistair quickly yanked off his boots and his pants the rest of the way and joined Moira on the bed, his hand stroking her bare stomach and sliding up to tease her nipple. She really wanted his hands to be elsewhere, but the roughness of his calloused fingers on the delicate skin of her nipple sent ripples of pleasure to her core. She shifted to lean on one arm and slid her hand down his stomach, following his trail to grasp him, running her thumb over his tip. Alistair moaned and shifted his hips toward her. She met his heated gaze and kissed him, briefly, before turning her eyes to Zevran, but both kept their hands where they were. 

Zevran held Moira’s gaze and slowly raised the two fingers that had been between her legs to his lips and carefully cleaned them, his tongue wrapping around them, drawing them into his mouth. She felt herself tighten in anticipation. He was the only one still wearing clothes, and he pulled his shirt off slowly while switching his gaze to Alistair. Moira followed his glance and saw Alistair was watching the elf as avidly as she had been. She looked back at Zevran and realized he’d completed his strip tease and was looking at them as intently as they’d been watching him, his eyes sliding to the activities of their hands. He walked to them slowly and her eyes went to where he pressed against his own abdomen, hard and taut. She raised her eyes back to his face as he crawled up her. He drew her hand off Alistair as he placed his legs between hers, pushed her flat onto the bed and captured her mouth with his. 

Alistair’s hand slid from teasing her nipple to between her legs and inside her. She moaned against Zevran’s mouth and felt him take her hands from where they gripped his shoulders and held them above her head, pinning her wrists to the bed. “Tonight is about you, _mi amora_. I’m sure our king agrees?” He glanced at the other man who twisted his fingers skillfully again, making Moira cry out and arch her back, aching for his fingers, or more, to plunge deeper within her.

Alistair leaned down and Zevran tilted out of the way as the other man flicked his tongue over Moira’s nipple and then he did that thing with his fingers again. She never could get him to tell her what it was he did, but it made her buck her hips, nearly shoving herself onto Zevran. “I agree completely,” Alistair replied, glancing up at Zevran while still playing with Moira’s breast.

“In the mean time, you have got to show me what you just did to her to get her to do that.” Zevran grinned wickedly and Moira groaned. 

Alistair matched his expression, and replied, “Better yet, I’ll show you. Give me your hand.” Moira felt fire race through her veins as both of their hands went between her legs, teasing her. She tried to sit up, but one took one wrist out from under her, the other took the other wrist and pinned her back against the bed. Her thighs rested on Zevran’s bare legs, her hips tilted up to him and suddenly, he did whatever it was that Alistair taught him and an aching fire shot from her center throughout her body and she bucked against him, arching her back off the bed. Zevran pushed into her and he caught himself on either side of her hips, moaning. 

Alistair moved to pull his hand away but Zevran caught his wrist. When he could speak again, Zevran told him, “Keep your hand on her, just there.” Moira closed her eyes tightly and cried out, unable to move as her second orgasm ripped through her at Zevran’s sliding slowly in and out. Alistair’s fingers pressing onto her clit as Zevran moved inside kept her shuddering through more aftershocks. She bucked her hips this time and locked her legs around Zevran’s, breaking his rhythm and making him simply loose control. Her eyes flew open as she felt him drive himself into her, groaning with his own release. Alistair yanked his hand out of the way as Zevran collapsed bonelessly on top of her. “Maker’s breath, Moira,” he moaned into her shoulder, his arms sliding up to hug her to him. She hugged him back with her free arm. “How do you do that to me?”

She kissed his ear, “Just lucky, I guess.” He slid off her, and watched as Alistair pulled her to him. Carefully, well aware that she was probably exhausted from Zevran, Alistair positioned her on top of him. Moira smiled at her lover and with his help, gently slid down him until he was sheathed completely within her. She felt Alistair’s hips buck and he moaned, his eyes closing. She started to move against him, rolling her hips. She felt sated, it was his turn now. Alistair, however, knew her quite well and sat up. She wrapped her legs around him, but not before he’d captured her mouth with his and slid one hand between them, rubbing her. His fingers, combined with simply being inside her, teased out another round of bulding tension within her core. She didn’t know if she had the strength for another, but it felt too wonderful not to help it along. She ripped her mouth away from him and arched her back, driving him deeper within her. Alistair pulled her back to him and kissed her, deeply, his tongue entwining with hers as he began to shudder and growl in his own release. He twisted his fingers and shoved deeper inside her in his own throes of passion and wrenched another orgasm from her. She clung to him, screaming her release into his mouth as he held her tight against him and she wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulders, holding him close. “Don’t ever leave me again,” she whispered against his lips as they both panted and trembled against each other. 

He pulled away from her to stare at her, he knew, somehow, she wasn’t talking about the physical separation they’d both have to endure after their return to Denerim, but the thought of him having to completely cut off all contact with her, “I promise.” 

~*~

Moira woke in the large bed, her body feeling worn out and exhausted. It was still the middle of the night, judging from beyond the partially drawn curtains, dawn hadn’t yet broken. The only light in the room came from the embers of the slowly dying fire. The familiar body of Alistair was huddled tightly against her back, one of his arms under her head, the other draped loosely across her. Zevran slept turned toward her, his legs entwined with hers and probably with Alistair’s. His cheek rested on Alistair’s forearm and on her arm where it lay alongside Alistair’s. One of his hands rested on her hip and the other was tucked between her legs. He lay so close to her that hers and Alistair’s arms were around him. For the first time since she’d met him, Zevran actually looked peaceful. 

He must have sensed her watching him because he tensed and his eyes flew open. Alistair snored and clutched them both tighter. The wariness left Zevran’s eyes and he grinned at her. “Is he always this noisy when he sleeps?” Moira smiled back and nodded. Zevran yawned, “ _Mi amora_ , I would gladly worship you again, as you so plainly deserve, but,” and he yawned again, “I’m afraid you’ve exhausted even my vast amount of stamina.”

Stifling a chuckle at his usual over-the-top speech, she smiled and whispered, “I couldn’t move my legs right now if a hurlock attacked us.” 

He turned over and settled his back against her, pulling her arm across him tighter and clutching it in both of his. Sleepily, he replied, “Good thing you don’t need to move with us here.” She felt a lump well up in her throat and turned her head to rest it against the back of Zevran’s neck, his hair tickling her cheek. She felt Zevran draw Alistair’s hand to their little knot of fingers and held on to both of them as she fell back to sleep.

~*~

When Moira woke again, she found herself partially lying on Alistair’s chest as he lay on his back, her dark hair draped across him. Zevran lay with his cheek against her breast, his arm and leg draped across her and across Alistair. Her fingers were loosely entwined with Alistair’s where their hands rested on Zevran’s back. Daylight was breaking through the heavy curtains. Moira sighed; she really did not want to get out of this bed. But they needed to get on the road back to Denerim. There was still the matter of the Crows’ contract on her and Zevran to deal with and their probable employer. 

Lassitude was much easier to give in to, however. She turned her head slightly and could hear Alistair’s heart beating peacefully. A knock at the door, however, was a little too loud to ignore. She was about to disentangle herself when Alistair grunted. She tilted her head to look at him, and he leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “I’ll get it. I don’t think he’s going to let you go any time soon.” Laying her gently back on the bed, he kissed her and pulled the heavy blankets up, covering Zevran who sleepily clutched tighter at Moira. She peaked out long enough to see Alistair pull on his pants as he walked to the door. 

He opened it and Shale shoved her way in. “I can’t find that bloody elf anywhere and we need to get on the road. Wynne is waiting.” The diminutive woman, already dressed in full armor with her weapons, took in Alistair’s state of undress and Moira’s head peeking out of the blankets on the bed. “Well?”

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, we’re going to need some time.” 

The dwarf crossed her arms and glared up at Alistair, “We still have to find that elf.” 

Moira felt Zevran move against her and looked down as “that elf,” pushed his head out of the blankets to look at Shale, “Miss me already, Shale?” 

The dark haired dwarva jumped and spun toward the bed. She grinned broadly at Moira, taking in Zevran’s head on her chest and glancing at the fact that Alistair was holding up his pants with one hand. “Well, well, well… the assassin bagged himself the Commander of the Grey and the King of Ferelden!” 

Moira froze and glared at Shale, ready to defend Zevran. She saw Alistair’s expression change to anger, and felt Zevran’s whole body still against her. Before any of them could do anything however, Shale’s expression changed from good natured lechery and joy to compassion, “It’s like that now, is it?” She looked at all three of them, “It’s going to be a long trip back to Denerim.” She sighed and waved her hand at them as she turned to leave, “All right, all right… finish your honeymoon. I’ll… stall the other two.” She closed the door behind her and Alistair locked it. 

He stood looking at the two elves for a moment, then crossed back to the bed. “What’s wrong?” Moira asked, looking up at him.

“Is that what this is? A honeymoon?” 

Zevran sat up on one arm, pulling the blanket off Moira who clutched at it in the sudden rush of chill air. “Does it matter?”

Alistair shucked his pants and climbed back under the covers, shoving Moira into Zevran before pulling her back against his chest as he lay down, “Yes. We’re not going to get to continue to be this happy, this … at peace for very much longer.”

Zevran flopped back down on Moira, his head lying back on her chest and she let him pull her arms around him. “Killjoy.”


	32. Chapter 32

Cullen was relieved to finally be on the road back to Ferelden, among other things. He couldn’t look at Moira without blushing though, remembering the moments before he drank the draught. He couldn’t believe he’d actually said . . . _that_. Thinking he was about to die was absolutely no excuse for such behavior. And he’d said it in front of the King, no less! Her lover! There was no hole deep enough for him to crawl in.

The nightmares were the worst part about being a Grey Warden, he discovered. The incident at the Circle Tower had given him plenty of fodder for bad dreams before now, but it was nothing compared to the clawing and whispering, chasing and salavering of the darkspawn. The night they spent on the road before getting to the town in which Wynne was waiting, the dreams were especially terrible. He soon found out why when he heard Moira’s and Alistair’s voices yelling for everyone to get up and get their weapons. He scrambled out of his tent to find both senior Grey Wardens already in their armor. The elf assassin and the female dwarf warrior were also heavily armored as if they’d not gone to sleep. Then he remembered they’d drawn first watch. He struggled to get the last buckle of his breast plate fastened, adrenaline already dumping into his system. 

He heard Jowan’s voice, “What’s wrong, what’s happening?”

Moira’s cold answer, “We’re about to be attacked. Make yourself useful or get out of the way.”

Cullen heard the ring of steel being drawn and King Alistair replied, “I can’t believe they’d attack this far north and this close to Weisshaupt.”

“I told you, the dreams have been getting stranger,” Moira told him, drawing her own sword.

“I see what you mean, now,” was the King’s reply.

“We’re not that far from Kal Sharok,” the dwarf pointed out. 

“Can we argue later and please greet our visitors with the ceremony and decorum they deserve?” The assassin snarled. Cullen agreed and silently drawing his own blade, went to stand beside the elf. Training with him on the long journey had gotten the ex-Templar used to the erratic fashion in which the former Crow fought. “From which way are they coming?” Zevran asked, looking over his shoulder at Alistair and Moira. In answer, all four Wardens pointed to the southwest. Zevran grunted, “Fair enough.” 

No sooner than the four of them pointed out the direction of the attack then the forerunners of the assault were upon them. A hurried conversation with Jowan, and Moira went to stand to one side, her blade at the ready and spells falling from her lips. Jowan mirrored his commander. And then Cullen had no time to worry about what anyone else was doing. 

The first wave of darkspawn that hit were just the normal fodder, glenlocks. The most common and seemingly most expendable of the shock troops the darkspawn had. He slashed and parried, ducked and shield bashed his way through the line, Zevran stalking behind him to clean up anything that survived the initial encounter. It didn’t take long to for Alistair to catch up, the king breathing heavily in his dull red dragonbone armor, but still disabling everything he hit. Shale and Zevran were efficiently plugging any holes they might have missed; nothing seemed to get through. But then, Cullen’s blood froze as he heard Moira scream in pain. He glanced in her direction, a Hurlock Alpha had some how circled them and was pounding on the armored mage. He heard the king yell, “Zevran!” but the elf had already started running to protect the commander. Cullen moved to help her, too, until Alistair’s commanding voice brought him back, “Hold your ground, Warden! We’ve got an Emissary to find! And we have another mage to protect!” How the man could stand there so calmly shouting orders when she was in danger made the ex-Templar’s blood boil. 

“How can you --?” He began, but found the front of his armor yanked toward Alistair’s snarling face. 

“Get your arse over there and protect Jowan before they take out the only other mage we have!” Without waiting to see if Cullen obeyed, Alistair glared at him and gestured for Shale to follow. Cullen did as he was told, his stomach in knots with worry. He charged a glenlock attempting to hack at Jowan with a sword and shield bashed a few more away from the mage. Keeping the monsters off Jowan as the blood mage countered the spells from the Emissary was irritating and absorbing and did succeed in distracting him from Moira’s predicament. It was between beheading one glenlock and turning to face a hurlock that he realized he could still sense that there were four Wardens nearby. Surely he wouldn’t be able to sense her if she were dead?

His sword ran through the last hurlock he could see and he and Jowan looked around, panting. “She’s all right, Cullen. That elf won’t let anything happen to her.”

The heavily armored man just glared at the bloodmage, “That elf is…” he trailed off as the two of them came hobbling into the clearing where their camp had been. Both Zevran and Moira were bleeding from various wounds and there was large rent in Moira’s breastplate. They were leaning heavily on each other. Ignoring Jowan, Cullen started walking to his commander, but froze when he saw the assassin lean down to kiss her. Jowan pushed past him to go to the woman he called sister. Cullen ignored him, focusing on the fact that the two of them were still kissing. His blood pounded in his ears and he forced himself to sheathe his sword and shield across his back otherwise he might have used it on one of them. 

He didn’t know why he could handle the idea of Moira being with the king and not the assassin. Maybe if she couldn’t be with him, at least a king was more worthy. He did respect the fighting ability of the assassin, but found the elf personally reprehensible. His fists clenched and unclenched and he found himself breathing heavily. He watched Zevran reluctantly part himself from Moira and turn to look around. Cullen assumed he was looking for the man he was cuckolding. “You son of a whore,” Cullen snarled.

Zevran stopped and turned toward the ex-templar, “Insulting, if accurate. What seems to be the matter now?”

All the ex-Templar could think of in that moment was wiping the smirk off the former Crow’s face. Ignoring, or rather, not hearing Moira’s shouted order to stand down, he leapt for the assassin intent on getting his gauntleted fists around the elf’s scrawny throat. Zevran stood his ground and ducked the heavier man’s first swing. Before he could swing again, the assassin swept his feet out from under him and punched him in the throat, making him gag and knocked him over on his back where his armor was less of a benefit and more of a hindrance. He found his arms pinned under the assassin’s legs and Zevran’s dagger stabbing through a weak point in his armor, angling for his heart. “Is there a reason for this, Warden?” Zevran snarled.

In the distance, Cullen heard Moira order the other mage, “Help me get the hell out of this, Jowan! The goddamned buckles will need to be cut. I don’t fucking have time to be delicate.”

The creak of more armor and the king’s voice, “Zevran, why the hell do you have our new Warden pinned?”

Shale’s voice, “Zevran probably did something to Moira and Cullen got jealous.”

“Get off me, elf,” Cullen snarled.

Zevran smirked through his blood-matted hair, “Make me.”

Alistair’s voice again, sounding tired, “Get off him, Zevran. He’s Moira’s to deal with anyway.” The knife was pulled away and Zevran leaped nimbly to his feet. No one offered to help Cullen stand. He awkwardly climbed to his feet and looked around immediately for Moira and found both Alistair and Jowan trying to pry her out of her ruined armor. The raven-haired woman flinched and breath hissed out between her teeth as a buckle was released painfully. Movement caught his eye and he glared as Zevran crossed to stand by her side. She held out her hand for him and he grasped it tightly. She was obviously in a lot of pain from the damaged armor and she had a white-knuckled grip on the assassin’s hand as Jowan and Alistair worked to get her out of it. Cullen wondered if she had broken any ribs.

She looked up and caught him staring, “I appreciate your concern, Cullen, but I’m,” breath hissed out between her teeth and Zevran turned a little pale as Moira’s nails dug into his hands, “fine. If you attack Zevran again, it’d had better be because he’s not ducking in time to miss an arrow.” Cullen’s anger went on a slow boil as the elf merely raised an eyebrow at that.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. It has—ooof!—happen - OW!” And she sagged in relief as the breast plate was finally removed from her abdomen. The rest of her armor had already been removed, and she clutched her ribs with her free hand, still holding on to Zevran’s hand. Between him and Alistair, they got her on her feet and helped her walk over to him. She glared up at him. What in Andraste’s name was wrong with him that he thought she was still beautiful despite the liberal coating and stench of darkspawn blood and the controlled rage radiating off her? And he really shouldn’t be thinking of how tightly her leathers fit her. “They are going to bandage my ribs. You three, get the camp cleaned up and ready to move.” She glared at Cullen one last time before the other two men all but carried her away. 

At least he could follow her orders. He started gathering their supplies; glad they’d somehow had the foresight to have a cold camp. It didn’t take long for the three of them to break down the camp and load up their horses. Cullen even checked each animal for wounds and still the three of them weren’t back. He looked at Shale, daring her to countermand him and order him to stay, he told them, “I’m going to go find them. They’ve been gone too long.” He spun on his heel and went after them leaving Shale staring at his retreating back in consternation.

He followed the sound of Moira’s voice cursing and Alistair telling her to hold still. “Zevran, make her hold still or this bandage will be too loose again and we’ll have to start all over!”

Cullen stood behind a tree watching the three of them attempt to bandage Moira’s ribcage. “Alistair, I love you, but you’re absolutely horrid at this.”

The fair-haired king grunted, pulling tighter on the linen, “Moira, I love you, but you’re a lousy patient.” 

Zevran laughed. “He’s got you there, mi amora.” The assassin held on to her tighter, the moonlight highlighting his straining muscles. Moira gripped his arms tightly and Cullen realized she was standing there in front of both of them, wearing only her small clothes and her leather pants, the silver light making her pale skin glow. Her leather jerkin lay discarded on a nearby bush. 

Moira grunted as Alistair tugged again, “Neither of you are going to have me until we get to Wynne.”

Even in the dim light he could see the king pout, “Even if we promise to be gentle?”

Moira attempted to laugh but nearly collapsed in pain, “Oh, Maker, don’t do that to me.” 

Zevran grinned, “I believe our dear Commander is begging for mercy.”

Alistair gave the bandage one last yank and Moira grunted at the tug. He tied off the linen securely and looked down at the elf mage, “Do you think she deserves it?” 

Zevran looked thoughtful. He stepped back and released her while Moira checked the bandage around her torso. “Hmmm…..”

“I think I should get something for putting up with both of you!” Moira said, pulling Alistair down for a kiss. Cullen wrenched his eyes away. But almost of their own accord, they wandered back to see her standing between both men, still, but kissing Zevran now. Rage flooded through his veins, his blood pounded in his ears and he stepped forward from behind the tree. 

“You whore!”

~*~

Moira froze, her hands still on each man’s chest, and she pulled her mouth away from Zevran’s to stare at Cullen. Mirth bubbled in her chest as she tried very hard not to laugh because it would hurt like hell. 

She didn’t have to look at Zevran or Alistair to know what their reactions were. She felt Alistair’s hand convulse on hers, tightening in rage. Zevran was standing loosely in the stance that meant someone was going to die, painfully. One of his hands was on the small of her back, but the rest of him was standing slightly away from her, poised on the balls of his feet.

She allowed herself to laugh as loudly as she wanted to, despite the pain. It wasn’t false, she was very amused, but if she didn’t do something to diffuse the situation, Zevran and Alistair would kill Cullen. She gasped for breath, “Are you incredibly stupid, or just suicidal?”

Brown eyes turned to glare at her after yanking themselves away from the two fighters on either side of her. Cullen stood ready to defend himself, one hand reaching behind him to draw his sword, but her laughter seemed to have caught him off guard. “They’ve made you their whore,” he explained to her patiently as if she were a naïve child. 

Moira tried very hard to not giggle again, “I don’t believe they’ve paid me.” She looked from Alistair to Zevran who were both still glowering at the newly made Warden. “Don’t be an idiot, Cullen,” she told him, her mirth draining away into simple exhaustion. She met his brown eyes, his mouth, framed by the neatly trimmed beard drawing into a harsh line. She stepped away from both of the other men. “I love them.” She glanced back at both of them, still standing as if ready to fight, “And they love me.” She looked back at her old friend, and watched his face crumple from rage to sorrow. 

She sent her magic through her muscles, feeling the strength it gave her flood through her. She knew both Cullen and Alistair would have felt it, but only Alistair would know what it meant. She knew she needed to prepare for a betraying move on Cullen’s part, but what exactly he would do, she didn’t know. Adrenaline flooded her veins and Zevran’s and Alistair’s presences took up their well-worn corners in her mind. “Why?” his voice was broken, ragged. “Why them? I watched over you for years! I have stayed faithful to you.” He dropped to his knees and looked up at her. “There was never any hope for us, was there.”

Moira closed the distance between them, despite her paranoia where Cullen was concerned, she did care for her friend. She cupped his face in her hands, “I’m not going to lie and say, ‘No,’ Cullen. Perhaps, if I’d stayed in the Tower. . . If I’d stayed a prisoner, I’d have been content with the affection of one of my jailers. But would you have broken your personal vows for me?”

The ex-Templar’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, “Yes.”

Moira shook her head, “No, you wouldn’t have. You hate me and you love me. You hate that I’m a mage. With every fiber of your being, you hate it. But you’ve decided I have to be worthy of your adoration, so you’ve put me up on a pedestal. A very tall one, I might add.”

One word, wrenched from his throat, “No.” His eyes closed tightly.

“But if you broke your vows to be with me, you’d grow to hate me anyway. And it would eat away at you, rotting through your very core. It would color every action you ever took and breaking those vows would break you.” Moira dropped her hands from his face but didn’t step back, “You won’t be going to Amaranthine with me when I go.”

With a roar, he launched himself at her. His arms wrapped around her hips, knocking her on her back. She nearly screamed at the agony that lanced through her as her fragile ribs impacted the ground and her vision nearly blacked out when her head struck a rock, but with her magic infusing her body, she was sturdier than she looked. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and she held his arms pinned against her, immobilizing him. She glanced up and glared at Zevran and Alistair who’d both drawn their weapons as the big man lunged. She shook her head at them and they merely stood ready so they could yank him off her if they needed to.

She wrenched Cullen’s face away from her chest by the simple expedient of yanking on his short hair, “You’ve attacked your superior officer, Cullen.”

Brown eyes stared at her, hatred plainly written in them, “You are not my superior, _mage_.”

Was he really going to push this to the point where she had to kill him? Another voice intruded, however. “What the hell is going on?” Jowan’s voice intruded. Moira groaned inwardly. Cullen’s opinion of Jowan was even worse than his opinion of her. She felt the heavily armored man on top of her go limp, however, and she released his hair. His head flopped back down on her chest and she felt him shudder, even through his armor. Breath hissed through her throat at the pain. 

Shale’s voice, “Are you both going to just let him smother her like that?” 

Moira drew in a breath, painfully, “Shale, Jowan, that’s enough. Zevran, Alistair, please make sure we’re ready to go.” She looked up to meet Alistair’s eyes as he stared down at her. She tried to reassure him without speaking. She needed to deal with this, privately. Cullen had too much pride and was too wounded to deal well with others seeing his humiliation. Alistair nodded, reluctantly, his mind processing the same information and coming to the same conclusion. 

“Be careful,” he mouthed, and she heard his and the other’s footsteps leave the area, crashing through the underbrush. She had no doubt, however, that Zevran had stayed to watch from concealment to back her up. 

Cullen’s heavy body still shook against hers. He managed to choke out, “So, after all this, you’re going to send me away?”

“Yes.” His arms tightened around her and she gasped as pain from her ribs lanced through her. He immediately loosened his grip, muttering apologies. “I have to be the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you would follow every order without question?”

He raised his face to meet her gaze where she looked at him down the length of her body, “Yes.”

“Liar.”

He tucked his face back against her stomach, “I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are. You wouldn’t allow me to endanger myself even if it was to stop a Blight. Neither would Alistair or Zevran, which is why they’re not going with me either.” 

He looked up at her again, alarmed. “You’re going to the stronghold of the man who tried to kill you _alone_?”

“I even plan to leave Perrin with Alistair.”

He sat up, giving her breathing room for her poor ribs, “Why?” She was glad he was finally thinking, using his brain to pull himself out of his emotional pit.

Clutching her chest, she pulled herself into a sitting position. “I’m the Commander of the Gray, Cullen. I can’t have, or be seen to have, emotional attachments to anyone. Jowan won’t be going either.”

Cullen made a face, “You’re better off without _him._ ”

Moira shrugged, “I hold a different opinion.” Moira shifted, grunting as her ribs protested. She looked at the taller man, catching his eyes and holding his gaze, “I am not their whore, Cullen.” 

He covered his face with his gauntleted hands, “It kills me to see you with them.”

“You’re going to have to respect my choice.”

“I could force you to choose differently,” his eyes slanted to her, the mix of anger, hatred and lust plain in his expression, his body tensing as if he would pounce on her again.

With her magic still singing through her muscles, Moira laughed, “No, you couldn’t. And you won’t. No matter your feelings right now, you are no monster.”

He looked away, “Andraste’s ass,” he swore. Then flinched at his language. Moira bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked back at her, “Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Propping his arms on his bent knees, he stared into the forest, “I’m sorry.” 

Grunting with the effort, Moira scooted a little closer and put her hand on his shoulder, “You’re going to find some nice farm girl one day, my friend.” And she meant the word.

He snorted, and turned to face her, not hiding the tracks of drying tears running down his cheeks, “Friend, huhn?”

Moira shrugged, wincing a little as even that movement caused her pain, “Well, Brother, technically.”

“Why them?”

It was Moira’s turn to stare off into the trees and spotted Zevran ducking behind a large oak. She smiled to herself, “They accept me for who I am and don’t try to change me.”

“Whereas all I’ve ever wanted was for you to not be a mage.”

“I can’t help being a mage any more than I can change my pointed ears, Brother,” she pointed out. “Can you please bring me my shirt, now?”


	33. Chapter 33

They reached Val Dorma by the next sunset. They made it to the inn where Wynne and Perrin had been staying. Moira walked into the common room feeling as if her muscles were about to refuse to move another inch and her ribs ached to the point where she wanted to weep. She’d been unable to put her armor back on and wore only the leather pants and jerkin that went under it, the jerkin helped to hold the bandages in place. She’d spent the last few miles, walking, unable to handle the jostling of the horse. She’d alternated between leaning on Alistair and Zevran and occasionally, even Jowan. No one let Cullen near her, not even Shale.

Alistair gave her a brief kiss, “I’ll get a couple more rooms. Go find Wynne and get yourself taken care of. I hate seeing you in this much pain.”

Moira nodded and looked dubiously at the stairs. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” She realized Zevran was standing beside her, “No, you’re not going to carry me.”

“Why not? Do you have something to prove to someone?” He asked.

“The Commander of the Gray does not get carried up a flight of stairs like some damsel in a bard’s tale.” 

Zevran clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She does when she can’t breathe without weeping.”

Moira scowled at him, “I have yet to shed a tear in pain, Zevran.”

Zevran grinned, “Poetic license, _mi amora_.” He walked to the foot of the stairs and bowed to her with a flourish, gesturing to the stairs, “After you, Commander.”

Moira glared at him and his grin widened. She knew he was challenging her but she’d faint from the pain before she admitted she needed help. She steeled herself and refused to think of how many stairs there were until the top. She gritted her teeth and began to climb, knowing Zevran was right behind her, not because he made any noise whatsoever, but because she’d begun to just know when he was around. She wavered slightly on about the fifth step and felt the gentle pressure of his hand against her back, keeping her from falling. From the position, she doubted anyone could have seen him support her. She took as deep a breath as she could and continued to climb. 

She reached the top of the stairs, panting shallowly. Her limbs were shaking and she felt like she was dripping with sweat. Zevran stood behind her, waiting for her to catch her breath. She looked at him and found that his face was carefully blank. “I know you disapprove, Zevran.”

He glanced around to make sure they were alone, “I realize you wanted to set an example for your Wardens, _mi amora_ , but the example you could have set was one of knowing when to ask for help and knowing your limits.”

“I realize that, Zevran, but I don’t honestly think it would have helped my situation with Cullen,” Moira pointed out.

“He needs to see you as human and his commander, _mi amora_. His pedestal for you is very high.”

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose, “I’ll keep that in mind, Zev. I promise.”

The elf smiled impishly, “Besides, you have two very gorgeous and strapping young men to cater to your every whim. Don’t you think you should take advantage of that more often?”

Moira turned to him, tilting her face up to his, one of her hands on his chest. She snaked the other one up and around to knot her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers. His arms slid around her gently, wary of her ribs as he returned her soft kiss. She pulled away first, unable to hold her shallow breath for very long. He leaned his forehead against hers and she said, “You make a compelling argument, Love. Now, please, help me to Wynne’s room.” He smiled at her, and she leaned on him as he led her.

At Wynne’s murmered, “Come in,” Moira and Zevran pushed into the room. Perrin leaped to his paws and ran at Moira, his stub of a tail wagging so hard his butt wiggled. “Sit!” Moira nearly shouted, afraid of the Mabari hitting her damaged ribcage with his enthusiasm, the pain of Cullen’s impact the other day shooting through her in a physical memory. With a whine, the Mabari dropped to his haunches, paw raised in supplication. “Help me down,” Moira told Zevran and using one hand on her back and holding one of her hands, he helped her kneel to greet her canine friend. The Mabari were the smartest dogs in Thedas, it didn’t take Perrin long to figure out he needed to greet his mistress carefully and without his usual exuberance.

Wynne came to stand near Moira and asked, “What by the name of the Maker happened, Moira?”

Giving Perrin’s ears a last scratch, Zevran helped her to her feet, “A hurlock Alpha got a little too affectionate with me on our way out of Weisshaupt.”

Wynne’s breath hissed through her teeth, and she immediately snapped into healer mode. She made Zevran bring Moira over to the chair in which she’d been sitting kitting in the last of the daylight. “Are they bruised or broken?”

Moira inhaled, slowly, and replied, “We’re not sure. Since I’m not coughing up blood, probably just cracked.” 

“Thank Andraste for small blessings,” Wynne sighed. “You couldn’t heal this yourself?” 

Moira shrugged, then winced. “Left the injury packs with you, so no.”

Wynne made the same clicking sound Zevran had earlier, “Aren’t you glad you traveled light? Foolish girl! Zevran, they’re over against the wall. Bring me one of the large ones.” Wynne unlaced Moira’s jerkin and helped her take it off. She unwound the bandages from the elf mage’s ribs, while Moira held her arms out and struggled not to breathe. Wynne winced sympathetically at the massive bruising on Moira’s torso. “Maker’s breath! What did it hit you with, a battering ram?”

Moira choked off a laugh, “Felt like it. But, no. It hit me with a broadsword, but Zevran distracted it enough that it only got a glancing blow. If he hadn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” 

Moira watched the emotions cross her old friend’s face. The old woman’s features settling on concern and anger. “Did you at least rescue Alistair?”

The man in question chose to open the door at that moment, “Of course she did!”

Wynne dropped the bandages and poultices and rushed to embrace the King of Ferelden. “Thank the Maker!” She stepped back and Moira was amused to see her scowl back in place. “What are you doing letting her get injured like that!”

Alistair threw his hands up in mock surrender at the same time that Zevran walked back over to Moira and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t look at me! It was his turn!”

Wynne turned to look at at the two elves. Moira tilted her head up to Zevran as he quietly asked, “How badly does it still hurt?” He moved his hand so that his thumb traced her jawline.

“A lot. Can we please get on with this?” The younger mage looked back at the older one as Wynne turned back to Alistair.

“I’m so sorry, Alistair. She shouldn’t be flaunting in front of you.” Wynne actually stood wringing her hands. 

Moira caught Alistair’s amused expression. He was actually having fun letting Wynne think poorly of her! Moira glared at him and he finally noticed her expression. She felt Zevran’s fingers tighten on her shoulders and she glanced up to find he was doing his best not to laugh at Wynne’s outraged expression.

Alistair gave in to Moira’s glare and crossed the room to her, he mouthed, _I’m sorry_ , before bending to kiss her as deeply as the awkward position allowed. 

Wynne burst into surprised laughter as Alistair straightened up. She shook her head, and met Moira’s eyes, “He had me going there for a moment. Forgive me, Moira. I apologize for jumping to conclusions.”

“It’s our Alistair’s fault, dear Wynne. He came out of his imprisonment with an even worse sense of humor than he went in with,” Zevran told her, leaning down to get his own soft kiss from Moira. 

“Oh, my,” Wynne murmured as he straightened up. Wynne met Moira’s eyes, “You’re certain of this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Moira responded. “Can we please get on with this?” 

Wynne looked at her steadily then grinned. Glancing at the two men, she said, “You two had better let her get some sleep tonight. She may not be able to travel in the morning as it is.”

Moira choked out a laugh at Alistair’s mockingly disappointed expression. Behind her, Zevran said, “We have been forced to be perfect gentlemen since the day it happened. It’s been heartbreaking.”

“Cheeky elf,” Wynne laughed. “All right, Moira, let’s get you wrapped up.”

~*~

Roughly an hour later, Moira was gratefully stretched out on the bed in the room she would be sharing with Zevran and Alistair. The numbing effect from the poultices dulled the pain from her damaged ribs. The two men sat at the small table in the room sharpening and polishing their blades and hers, and cleaning all of the armor. If it weren’t for the implements of violence in their hands, it would have made a nice picture. “We’re never going to get a break, are we?”

Zevran glanced up from the dagger he was polishing. “Where would be the fun in that?” She saw Alistair catch his eye and shake his head slightly. Zevran sighed and put the dagger and rag down and crossed the room to her. She watched him kneel down next to the bed and take her hand in his, “ _Mi amora_ , I would give anything to live peacefully with you in some village somewhere.” He moved closer to the head of the bed, and with his free hand, brushed her hair behind her pointed ear.

Moira snorted, wincing at the stab of pain in her ribs, “No you wouldn’t. You’d get bored.”

Zevran grinned, “We could run off and join the Dalish. I’m sure they’d allow us to keep Alistair, if we told them he was our sex slave.” He looked at the other man over his shoulder. 

Moira choked back a laugh, “Maker’s Breath, Zevran! You’re going to kill me.” 

By the time she’d recovered from the flare of pain Alistair had crawled in bed next to her and took her other hand in his, holding it over his heart, his tone serious and his hazel eyes meeting hers, “He’s right, you know.”

“Oh?”

“The Dalish would completely believe I was your sex slave.”

~*~

Alistair woke slowly to find himself wound around Moira, her legs tangled with his, but her head on Zevran’s chest. Even in their sleep, they were careful not to hurt her injured ribs further. Both she and Zevran were sound asleep still and he took a moment to look at both in the dim rays of the early morning sunlight peering through the high casement window in the shabby but clean room. He raised his head and realized he’d been lying on the assassin’s arm where it emerged from under Moira’s dark curls. He thought he should feel odd about that, but discovered it didn’t bother him at all. The fact that the assassin was undoubtedly nude in their bed was slightly unsettling, but not enough for Alistair to want to flee from the warm coccoon. Moira had fallen asleep wearing one of his shirts again and it was bunched up under her breasts, baring the bandages binding her torso. He put his arm back around her, across her hips, avoiding her injury, and settled down to go back to sleep when he felt Zevran watching him from half-lidded eyes. The assassin smiled lazily from over Moira’s head as she snuggled into his shoulder in her sleep. 

Alistair had to smile back. He thought he should mind more, sharing her. But he couldn’t feel jealous of Zevran any more. Especially when her small hands clutched at him in her sleep to pull his head back to her own shoulder. He resisted for a moment and whispered, “I’m surprised I’m not more jealous of you.”

Zevran frowned for a moment, considering the king’s words and replied, “And I of you. I didn’t expect that.” 

Alistair lay his head back down and sighed, contentedly. He reached over and patted Zevran’s leg, momentarily relieved to find the elf wearing pants, before putting his arm back around Moira. “I didn’t expect any of this,” he replied, sleep already reclaiming him.

~*~ 

“I am getting up and we’re leaving for Denerim, Alistair!” Moira nearly shouted in irritation.

“You’re not getting out of this bed if I have to tie you to it, Moira,” Alistair told her, pulling his shirt on over his head. Daylight flooded the eastern-facing room from the small window high in the wall. He looked up and saw a wicked grin cross Zevran’s face from where he lounged in the room’s only chair. Alistair laughed and threw the other man’s shirt at him, “Don’t get any ideas, Zev. She needs rest.”

The blond elf’s grin turned into a pout, causing Moira to laugh until she had to hold her ribs. “Spoilsport,” he told Alistair. The taller man was prevented from replying by a knock at the door and Wynne’s voice.

“No, that’s a spoilsport. Get dressed.” Grumbling and making Moira laugh helplessly at his theatrics, the elf complied. “Just a minute, Wynne,” Alistair told the closed door, shaking his head at his friend.

Zevran pulled the shirt on over his head but went over to sit on the bed next to Moira. Alistair rolled his eyes as the assassin leaned over to kiss the mage. When Moira’s fingers went up into the elf’s blond hair and Zevran climbed over her to straddle her hips, the king let in the elder mage as a form of interruption. He nearly laughed out loud as Zevran pulled his mouth away from Moira’s and sat back on his heels, turning his head to glare at Alistair. “What?” he demanded with mock innocence. “She needed to come in!”

Zevran ignored the other man and turned back to Moira, “What would you like for breakfast, _mi amora_?”

Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle loudly and Alistair felt an answering pang in his own. “I don’t care,” she replied, “as long as there’s a lot of it.”

Wynne stood watching the three of them and shook her head, her hands on her hips, “Both of you, out.” 

Zevran gave Moira another kiss, brief this time, and grabbing his boots, left the small room. Alistair bent for his own kiss as Moira asked him, “Feed Perrin for me?” He nodded in reply and pressed his lips against hers, intending a brief kiss so that Wynne could examine her. The elf mage had other plans and her fingers wound though his hair, holding him in the kiss and pulling him off-balance. He nearly fell onto her, but caught himself on his hands on either side of her hips. Forgetting his intention of getting out, Alistair deepend their kiss, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth to stroke hers. For a long moment, she was all there was in the world, her touch, her scent, her taste. Nothing else mattered.

She pulled her lips away first and Alistair did his best to catch his breath, opening his eyes to watch her. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you, too,” he whispered back, touching his forehead to hers. Her fingers still played in his hair making him fight the urge to push her back down into the bed and bury himself in her. 

He nodded. “Just, uh, give me a minute.” 

She glanced down and met his eyes again, her smile wide and mischevious. “I hope I still do that to you when we’re decrepit and gray, my love.”

Alistair returned her grin, “I have no doubt that you will.” He gave her another kiss, this one quick and chaste and retrieved his boots. As he left, Wynne was already helping Moira out of her borrowed shirt in order to unwind the bandages.

Zevran met him out in the hall, “I thought you weren’t jealous, my dear Alistair.”

Shrugging, Alistair tucked his shirt into his pants, “I said, ‘more jealous,’ not ‘not jealous.’ I’m a little jealous.”

Zevran laughed, “At least we’re honest with one another. I must admit to a small amount of jealousy as well. Come, let us get our lover her breakfast so she might recover her strength faster.”

At the thought of Moria regaining her strength, Alistair groaned. “You are not helping. I’m going to need a cold bath, soon.”

Zevran sighed, similar images apparently dancing across his own imagination, “You and me, both, my friend. Maker blast that stupid hurlock.”

The two men went down stairs. Perrin rushed to greet them, wagging his stub of a tail. Shale looked up from where she sat with the mage and the former Templar. The petite woman slid off her stool in greeting. “Good morning! I trust you three slept well?” She grinned broadly. 

Apparently, the earthyness of her dwarven nature had wasted no time in reasserting itself once she became mortal again. Alistair stretched, exaggerating the motion, “Tolerably well, all things considered.”

Zevran laughed, “Something to be said for the arms of a beautiful woman.” Alistair caught the deadly glare Cullen shot the elf and exchanged a glance with Zevran. 

Jowan stood up, interrupting the tension. “What is the plan for the day?”

Shale shook her head, “I think I’ll just go find out from Wynne and Moira myself. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.” The dwarva disappeared up the stairs.

“The plan is for Moira to recuperate for a day, let Wynne’s treatments reknit her bones,” Alistair replied.

“And what do we do in the meantime?” Jowan asked.

Zevran shrugged, “Rest while we can. Perhaps see what we can get in the way of supplies here. But more importantly, we leave her to rest. No matter how bored and grouchy she’ll get.”

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, “I forgot about that. She’s really going to be very irritated at not being allowed to move around. Maybe I’ll sleep down here tonight.”

An expression of mock horror crossed Zevran’s features, “She really will be that irritatable, won’t she.” He made a put-upon sigh, “The trials we must bear.” The two men grinned at each other.

“You’d better get her her breakfast,” Alistair reminded the elf as he sat down at the table with Cullen and Jowan. Zevran left to find a server to order something for himself and Moira. Alistair waited at the table, silently regarding the two newest Ferelden Grey Wardens. “Cullen, find something to do that isn’t here. I’ll talk to you later.”

The sandy-haired man blinked, “Um, what should I do?”

Crossly, Alistair glared at him, “I don’t care. Try checking on the horses? Just get lost.” Irritably, Cullen slammed his empty tankard of ale down on the table and stormed out of the inn. 

Jowan looked at the king and swallowed nervously. “Wh-what can I do for you, your-“

“Don’t finish that form of address,” Alistair warned, glaring at the mage pointedly.

“Uh, yes, your- er, Alistair.”

A barmaid came to the table and interrupted them. Alistair ordered and waited for her to leave, watching the blood mage steadily. When they were alone again, except for Perrin who settled at Alistair’s feet, the king said, his voice cold, “Moira told me about the part you played in her recruitment.”

Nervously, the mage swallowed, “I, uh, I’m not proud of that.”

“Yeah, you proved that at Redcliffe.”

Defensively, Jowan started shouting, “I thought -” and Alistair cut him off with a gesture to lower his voice. The blood mage leaned into the table, his voice lower, “It was Loghain! The Hero of the River Dane? The Savior of Ferelden? How was I to know he was a traitor!”

“Who are you loyal to now, Jowan? Yourself?” Alistair stared at him steadily.

“I – I’m loyal to you and to Moira.” The dark-haired man’s voice was defeated.

“No, you’re not.”

“What?” Jowan nearly shouted. At another angry gesture from Alistair, Jowan continued, his voice lowered again, “I am! I’m loyal to you and to Moira! And Ferelden!”

“Shut up, Jowan. You’re a blood mage. You’re loyal to yourself, first and foremost.” 

Anger crossed the other man’s pinched face, “Just because I know a few unsanctioned spells, doesn’t make me a bad person!”

Alistair glared at him, “No, but the fact that you would use your best friend since childhood, the woman you claim is as close to you as sister, for your own ends, proves you are a blood mage, through and through.”

Jowan looked at the other man, helplessly. “I – I’m not that person any more. I would never harm her. Ever again!”

Alistair just looked at him steadily, allowing his doubt to show plainly in his eyes. “What did you do to become a blood mage, Jowan?”

Jowan blinked, startled at the question. “I – I read a book. It was a forbidden book, but I found it in one of the instructors’ offices when I was cleaning it for him. I don’t know why I was never reported for theft.”

Alistair shook his head, _Is this guy for real?_ “Did it ever occur to you he couldn’t report you without admitting to practicing it himself?” A large bowl of steaming porridge was placed in front of him along with a heaping plate of ham and eggs and a tankard of ale. A large hambone was dropped in front of Perrin who started gnawing noisily immediately. After the barmaid left, Alistair dug in and said around the food in his mouth, “So, you never made a deal with a demon for your abilities?”

Jowan choked on his mouthful of ale, swallowing it quickly to keep from spitting it all over the table. When he could speak again, he stared at Alistair, “How-? Who would do such a thing?”

He wasn’t certain why, but he wasn’t buying Jowan’s innocent act. Moira had often told him to trust his instincts, and right now, they were screaming. “People desperate for more power. People utterly uninterested in how their actions can affect the world around them. The completely insane or the incredibly stupid.”

Jowan sat slumped in his chair, his mouth open in astonishment, “Do you honestly think I’m that . . . evil?”

Around another mouthful of the bland eggs, Alistair replied, “Are you?”

“Does it matter if I say ‘no’?”

“Not especially.” The mage and the king regarded each other, staring at each other. Jowan was doing his best not to back down from the bigger man, but not challenge him either. Alistair broke the silence first, “If you’re finished, go help Cullen.” Relieved, the mage jumped up from the table and nearly sprinted from the common room.

Angrily, Alistair continued to shovel food in his mouth, as usual ignoring the bland taste in favor of just shutting up his nearly-always empty stomach. Zevran spoke from behind him as he approached the table with his own plate of ham and eggs, “You do not trust the blood mage either?”

Alistair looked up from his breakfast, “Of course not, do you?”

The elf snorted, cutting into his ham, “The list of people I trust completely is very short, my friend. You and Moira are the only constant members of it.”

Alistair nodded, unsurprised, “He was the reason she’s a Grey Warden, you know.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

“As if you had to ask.”


	34. Chapter 34

Moira still couldn’t handle riding a horse; the jostling was too much despite the day-long stay in bed. Walking would slow their return to Denerim, but it couldn’t be helped. In contrast, everyone had insisted that Wynne remain on horseback, no matter the slow pace. The elder mage needed to retain what strength she had left. Perrin trotted ahead, sniffing out the road and then repeatedly bounding back to Moira’s side, barking his report. Zevran had no idea how his lover understood the dog, but either she actually did, or put up a good front. 

Alistair walked near her, the two of them surreptitiously clasping hands when they didn’t think anyone would notice. He knew Moira was just relieved to have Alistair back at her side. He’d be jealous, but she seemed to keep touching him, too, as if to make sure he was still there. Walking along beside her, he’d feel her small hand slip into his, clasping his fingers tightly before letting them go, wisely not hampering his sword arm. He met Alistair’s eyes over her head and the king winked at him. Zevran felt himself smile back, a feeling of peace he had never expected, nor thought he wanted, stealing over him at the sight of both of them. Neither of them were going to tell him to leave. He finally realized he’d found a home. Wherever they were, he would belong as well. He allowed his fingers to entwine with Moira’s, briefly, squeezing her hand as she’d done his. She glanced up at him through the raven hair falling into her eyes and smiled at him. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms just to feel her press against him, reminding himself there would be time for that later. 

Besides, she was forced to wear those skin-tight, scant mage robes due to her injury. The fact that her armor was useless until it was repaired made the robes a necessity–she wouldn’t trust anyone but Wade & Herron with the repairs. He had all day to enjoy the sight of her round ass encased in the clinging silk of the skirt. He let a little of his lust shine through in his eyes and was gratified to see her blush. He leaned down slightly to see if he could embarrass her further, “Are you still in pain, mi amora?” he whispered in her ear, his hand sliding down to cup her ass. He felt her step falter before she regained her composure.

Her hand reached up and she trailed a finger along his jaw, rasping along the stubble he hadn’t taken the time to scrape off this morning. “Maybe… if you’re gentle,” she whispered back.

Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for nightfall.

~*~ 

It was a long walk to Perivantium, longer since they had to walk the Imperial Highway and the small group settled into a routine of travelling. They still stuck with the cover of travelling merchants, but with Alistair pretending to be the senior partner and Cullen the junior. 

Alistair sat on a fallen log as they discussed this cover story and Moira gingerly settled down between his legs, leaning her back against him and her head on his thigh. “Not only should you and Cullen pretend to be merchants, but maybe brothers?”

The king looked consideringly at the new Warden, “All right, I think we can pull it off. Though he is older than me.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to be the more senior in our business, ‘brother,’” Cullen pointed out.

Zevran sat next to Alistair on the log and grinned down at Moira, “Will you serve Alistair or Cullen, _mi amora_?” 

Moira grinned at him, catching the innuendo he’d put on the verb. Looking up at Alistair, she transferred her grin to him, “I don’t know… What will my service entail?”

When Alistair returned her grin, allowing a bit of a leer through, her grin widened and she said, “Because I’m not washing your socks.” Alistair put his hand to his heart and pretended to fall backward off the log. Zevran had to laugh at them. 

When Alistair turned his mock glare to him, Zevran told him, “Don’t look at me, I’m Sers’ bodyguard. I don’t do laundry, either.”

After the laughter settled back down, Wynne smiled and said, “I refuse to be your mother. Either of you.”

Before anyone else could reply, Zevran told her, “With that magical bosom? Never.” He winked. “Favorite aunt, my dear Wynne?”

Wynne glowered at him, though he could tell she wasn’t serious, “That’ll do, Zevran. “ She laughed, “You haven’t changed one bit.”

He stood and bowed to her with a flourish, but before he could reply, he caught Moira looking up at him, something in her eyes he’d never thought to see, “Why would we let him change, Wynne?”

An exasperated tone in her voice, Wynne replied, “I guess we wouldn’t want that.” Zevran barely heard her, his eyes still locked with Moira’s. He sat back down on the log without his usual grace and felt her small hand grasp his from around Alistair’s leg. The bigger man moved his leg to the other side of Moira so they were flanking her where she sat on the ground, but his movement pushed the side of his hip into Zevran’s. Alistair either didn’t notice through his armor, or didn’t care that he was touching the assassin. Moira reached up to wrap her other arm around Alistair’s leg and leaned her head on him, but still held Zevran’s gaze and his hand. 

Alistair’s voice barely crossed Zevran’s awareness as he said, “Shale, I guess that makes you a bodyguard, too. Jowan, a mage that was looking for traveling companions?” At the sound of their assent, Alistair stood up, putting his bowl near the pile of used dishes near the fire. “Glad that’s all taken care of. Now, I need to have a discussion with my servant and my body guard in private. Perrin, stay by Wynne.” The king rose, drawing Moira to her feet with him, and Zevran followed, drawn along by that tiny, imperious hand. He felt odd, detatched, surreal. As if he were watching someone else lucky enough to be wearing his body and have this sort of attention paid to him. 

Alistair didn’t lead them to their tent, however. He stopped some distance away from the camp, the firelight glowing in the distance like a small beacon. Zevran turned to look at the other man, “What did you need to discuss?”

Alistair merely smiled, “Moira’s feeling better, Zevran. But I don’t think the three of us can do anything in that tent besides sleep. And even that may be doubtful.” He gestured to the ground. The Grey Warden had led them to a small area he’d apparently cleared out earlier. Their three bedrolls were laid out on the ground, overlapping slightly to keep them together. Zevran grinned, reality coming back to him in a rush. He glanced at Moira and found she was already working on the many buckles of her mage robes. He wasn’t certain if Alistair had planned it, but he seemed to have chosen a spot where the moonlight came through the trees at just the right angle. It bathed her in silver, making her raven hair as dark as the night sky and her skin glow as if lit from within by the moonlight and he inhaled sharply, his armor growing very uncomfortable. He’d thought the DreamMoira had been beautiful and then was proven wrong by the real woman in her room at Weisshaupt. He’d thought she’d looked beautiful by firelight that night. This was twenty times better. He heard the other man make a similar sound and Moira looked up, her eyes wide. 

“What?”

“Maker’s breath, you’re beautiful,” Zevran told her. He pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers and fitting her slender body against his. Her fingers started to fumble for the straps of his armor as he deepened their kiss.

~*~

They made it back to their tent before the end of second watch, Shale grinning knowingly as she watched them steal back into camp, their bedrolls and armor in disarray. Perrin leaped to his feet to greet Moira and settled down outside the tent flap as they crawled inside to sleep until the fourth watch that Alistair and Zevran had drawn. Moira and Wynne were kept out of the rotation, Moira for her injury, Wynne for her tendency toward exhaustion.

Zevran did not care, though, as long as Moira healed properly. He lay on his side, facing her, pretending to sleep but watching her drift off, nestled against Alistair’s front as the other man curved around her. Zevran had no particular objection to being closer to Alistair, but Moira was the glue still holding them together and they both still needed to be near her for their own reasons. Alistair, because of their separation, Zevran because he was finally coming to grips with how he felt about her. Gently, his long fingers pushed a lock of hair that had fallen over her eyes back behind her perfect pointed ear. She shivered in her sleep and he didn’t have to see through the blankets covering them that she’d pushed her hips against Alistair’s for he moaned, sleepily, and buried his face in her hair. Zevran smiled and turned over, tucking himself in against Moira and feeling her breasts press into his back and her’s and Alistair’s arms drape over him. He didn’t wake again until Alistair nudged him for fourth watch.

 

Their routine unchanged, they reached Perivantium a few days later.

~*~

Moira sat, shirtless with just her bra on her upper half, in Wynne’s and Shale’s room at the inn to which they’d returned upon their arrival. She perched on the edge of the bed, with Wynne seated behind her, unwiding the bandages around her torso for the last time. She was greatly relieved to finally be without them and grateful to the swifter healing from the poultices and bandages the older mage had been slathering her with since Val Dorma. The giant bruise was nearly faded, too. Shale sat on the sole chair in the corner, swinging her legs in boredom. 

The petite woman looked up and grinned at Moira as if a thought had just occurred to her. “So, which one’s better?”

Moira looked at her, frowning, “What are you talking about?” She heard Wynne start laughing behind her, and finally understood Shale’s meaning. A slow flush started at her chest and rapidly spread to her hairline. She frowned at the dwarf woman. “I am not answering that question!”

Not to be dissuaded, Shale’s grin widened, “It, I mean, you, have to have compared them. You must have an opinion!”

Wynne leaned around to see her face her own smile wide, “You can tell us, Moira. Your secret’s safe.”

The younger mage had to laugh, “You two are terrible! I am not going to gossip about their ‘talents’!”

The dwarf nodded sagely, “I’ll bet the painted elf’s more skilled.”

Wynne made a scoffing noise from where she had returned to unwinding Moira, “Bah, there’s something to be said for athleticism and enthusiasm.”

Moira didn’t think it possible for her face to turn more red. She had to hold still for the unwrapping, but was at least able to hide her face in her hands. “Ugh, I am not contributing to this conversation!”

“Oh, Moira, don’t be such a spoil sport,” Wynne chided. Her deft fingers began to prod Moira’s ribcage, looking for any signs that the bones had not reknitted.

“Yes, Moira… spill!” Shale demanded.

Wynne hit a sensitive spot and Moira hissed in pain. Shaking her head, she told them, “Well… as for who’s better,” she trailed off, slyly. “I’d have to say they each have their strong suits. But it’s not really proper to talk about them like this!”

The older mage made an exasperated sound, “What you’ve been doing with both of them is hardly ‘proper’ in most societies, dear. Spill!”

Moira turned her head to glare at her mentor, “And what you’ve got going on with Irving and Greagoir is?”

Shale laughed so hard at that rejoinder, she almost fell out of her chair. “Oh, ho! The truth comes out!”

“I – I have never engaged in such things!” Wynne sputtered. “You’re just trying to change the subject!” As if in revenge her fingers found another sore spot and Moira yelped.

“You did that on purpose!” 

“And? Answer the question!”

Sighing, Moira gave in, “Neither is _better_ than the other. . . they just do things _differently_.” Moira’s imagination very helpfully provided her with the vivid memory of the one night on the road the two of them had competed over technique. Her blush, which had abated, flared back up.

Shale caught her change in color and laughed again, “I see we touched a nerve!”

Moira was saved from answering by a very disheveled Jowan bursting into the room, Perrin leaped to his feet, growling. “Moira, Wynne, come quickly! It’s Zevran!”


	35. Chapter 35

Moira scrambled off the bed and raced after Jowan, her heart in her throat. The men had gone to find a stable for the eight horses they now had. What could have happened in the little bit of time that they’d been gone? The bloodmage led them to the room Moira shared with Alistair and Zevran and opened the door. The elf mage rushed in, fear causing her stomach to drop into her feet. Alistair was just laying the unconscious elf on the bed, Cullen stood off to the side. Both warriors were battered and their armor dented. Cullen was bleeding from a cut above his right eye and Alistair had a swiftly blackening left eye and a split lip. But even as concerned as she was about Alistair’s well-being, Zevran’s appearance nearly stopped her heart.

His head lay limply against the hard pillow, and his left arm was nearly split open from elbow to wrist. His nose was broken, again, and blood trickled from his mouth, denoting internal injuries, his right leg lay at a terrible angle on the bed. “Oh, Maker!” she sobbed. Alistair took her hand, and her other went to her mouth as she sat gingerly on the bed next to the assassin. “What happened?”

“Crows,” was her other lover’s one word answer.

She pulled her hand away, shoving the implications of his information and her fear down where it wouldn’t impede her ability. She drew on her mana and gathered her energy. Her awareness spread to encompass Zevran where he lay limply on the bed, his lifeforce barely registering, then to engulf the sheer vitality of Alistair and Cullen and even her Mabari who’d come in and pressed himself against her leg in comfort. She felt, rather than saw, Wynne pull Cullen out of the room, leaving the four of them undisturbed. Moira inhaled and time seemed to slow down as she reached for the Fade and its power to bring Zevran back from his almost-death.

In a rush, the living energy of the Fade filled her and electrified her. Every nerve ending tingled, and her skin crawled with containing the force of the spell of Revival. It was more difficult this way, without the rush during a battle to aid in her drawing of her power. She had to ride the energy of the Fade and release it quickly before demons became attracted to her rift. However, she needed a spirit for this to work. This was so much easier during or after a battle, fueled by adrenaline and the spirits congregating around the violence and the excitement. She had to coax one near her, now, to heal her Zevran.

Moira stood half in and half out of the Fade, shining like a beacon for demons and spirits alike. This was the most dangerous part. If she attracted a demon that could convince her it was a spirit, it would have a hold on her and on the living world. A diaphanous cloud that moved without wind drifted toward her, communicating without words. Flashes of images skittered across Moira’s mind as the spirit attempted to speak. They could not, of course, talk. The images were familiar to the mage and Moira breathed a sigh of relief, she’d negotiated with this spirit before and doubted a demon could imitate that kind of familiarity. The spirit also always wanted the same thing. It missed what Moira had plenty of right now, no matter how terrified she was. 

It wanted to share her memories. Of Alistair and now Zevran. Alistair smiling, broadly, at a bawdy joke Oghren was telling, waiting for the punchline. Zevran’s wicked grin the last time he outsmarted her. Sitting between them, the warmth of their bodies and the heat of the campfire making her drowsy until she leaned on one of their shoulders and dozed, curled up in their safety. Then it rifled through the memories of them being with her, the first time, and individually, and waking up in the middle of them, their arms around her, her arms around them.

She had a theory why this particular spirit always wanted to visit her memories of being with Alistair or Zevran. It seemed to energize the poor thing, knowing, feeling love again. Warmth suffused her, flooding her. It flowed out through her fingers and she put both hands on the assassin’s chest, transferring it to him. Time sped back up and Zevran gasped and grasped her hands that were pressed to her chest. The spirit left her, then as the tear into the Fade gently closed.

He stared around wildly and saw Alistair as the bigger man knelt next to the bed, relief written all over his face. His eyes locked on Moira and he reached up and put his hand on her cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “Don’t cry over me, _mi amora_ ,” he told her. 

She pulled him up to her and buried her face against his neck, “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Zev! Ever! Neither of you!” she glanced up and glared at Alistair for good measure. 

He grinned and sat behind Moira, enfolding them both in his arms. “He was saving my life, my love.”

She buried her face in the amused elf’s neck again and whispered, “Next time, don’t do it with your own life.” 

“I’ll keep that advice in mind, _mi amora_ ,” she could hear the smile in his voice as his arms finally went around her pulling her close. 

Moira kissed his ear, her voice still in a whisper, “I love you.”

The assassin stiffened against her, startled. “What did you say?”

She kissed the side of his jaw and replied, “You heard me.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” there was an odd note in his voice as he buried his face against her neck.

~*~

Zevran woke slowly. He’d collapsed after Moira had healed him, and truthfully, so had she. The assassin had been only vaguely aware of them both removing his armor and Moira curling up next to him to sleep off her own exhaustion. Alistair had left them alone. A passing regret that he was too tired to take advantage of the situation roused him only enough to turn over and put his arm over her before he fell into a deeper sleep. Now, he woke in pieces instead of his usual immediate alertness. Drowsily, he opened his eyes to find himself alone in bed buried in the thin blankets. The room was dimmed in the blue light of dusk and a single candle illuminated his elf mage sitting on the only chair in the room, sewing a hole in a sock, which from the size, could only be Alistair’s. Perrin was laying on his side at her feet snoring loudly, his large paws twitching in a dream.

He propped himself on his elbow, “Please don’t tell me that’s Alistair’s?”

He loved her laugh, it was raspy, but still light, “All right, I won’t.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow at her, “Why are you darning his sock?”

She put her project down and crossed the room to him. Zevran slid over to accommodate her, holding his arms out for her to lean against him. She sat, one of his arms resting in her lap the other around her waist, and looked down at him, “While watching you sleep is a great pleasure in and of itself, Zev, it is a tad boring.”

Mockingly, he put a hand to his chest, “You wound me, _mi amora._ ” She laughed at him again. “Darning a sock is the only thing you could think to do?”

“I made healing potions until my fingers turned numb; I made healing poultices until we have enough to wrap both Alistair and Cullen from head to foot. The socks were the last thing I could think of.” 

Zevran blinked at her, astonished, “For how long was I sleeping?”

“All day. Alistair told me what happened when I woke up four hours ago. The Crows found us, have they?”

He nodded and flopped back onto the bed and covered his eyes with his arm, “I’m afraid Antiva is closed to us.”

Moira stood abruptly and began to pace, her movement startling the mabari who lunged to his feet, “Perrin, go get everyone,” she told the large dog after a minute and then let him out of the room. Zevran watched her think, her slender fingers pushing a curl behind her pointed ear as usual. She chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail, but not hard enough to tear it. “You should probably get dressed, Zev,” she told him absently.

He stared at her for a moment before realizing she was too distracted and wouldn’t welcome any interruptions of her thoughts. He climbed out of bed and found his clothes folded neatly on the floor next to it. _You can take the boy out of the Chantry,_ he thought to himself, warmth suffusing him for a moment as he quickly got dressed. He watched her pace and think, her bright blue eyes focused on their many possible paths from this point forward. Why had she told him she loved him? How could she love him? The urge to flee welled up and then his stomach dropped down into his boots as the thought surfaced that he should run away. Run away before he got her killed, run away before he hurt her, or worse, she hurt him. _Rinna._ He stamped his feet into his boots at that thought. Self-pity would get him nowhere. He also wasn’t about to abandon her when she was in trouble. Even if his instincts were crying out to run. 

As he was shrugging into his tunic, Alistair entered, closing the door behind him. The tall, fair haired man paused and looked at Moira who was still pacing and who’d only spared a short half-wave for him. The king looked at the assassin with tilt of his head and a quirk of his eyebrow in their lover’s direction. Zevran shrugged as he tucked in his shirt tail and reached for his belt. Alistair sat down at the foot of the bed and watched the mage. “The others will be up here, shortly. I asked them to give me a minute.”

Moira stopped to look at him, “Why?”

“Because I’ve had most of the day to think about this, and I’ve probably come to the same conclusion you have.” Zevran winced as they both locked eyes and told each other, “We can’t go through Antiva.”

Even if he’d said the same thing earlier, it still rankled that they were so much in tune to each other they could do that. “Then we go to a different port city, my Wardens,” he offered.

“Do you have a suggestion?” Moira asked as Wynne and Jowan entered. 

“Cumberland would be easiest. Though Vyrantium and Neromenian might be busier ports, Cumberland has the benefit of not being in Tevinter,” Zevran told them.

Alistair grunted and stood up. He turned to look from Zevran to Moira, “Much as I enjoy you two pretending to serve me,” he grinned and ducked as Moira threw his half-darned sock at him. “I don’t think we can keep up the illusion on a Tevinter ship. Moira will get angry eventually and turn me into a toad.”

They all laughed, even Zevran, despite not feeling like laughing much at all. Cullen and Shale followed by Perrin finally joined them. “What’s going on?” the dwarf asked.

Moira met Zevran’s eyes, “I believe we’re going to Cumberland and hope we can get a ship to Denerim from there. I have no desire to walk, or ride, through Orlais.”

“Good,” Cullen said, closing the door. “When do we leave?” 

“Tonight. We don’t give the Crows a chance to hit us here,” Alistair replied. “Get packed, we leave in an hour.”

~*~

It took less than an hour. Zevran sat on his horse as Moira mounted hers, her mage robes adjusted to cover her legs as much as possible. He knew she was internally cursing her lack of armor and having to wear the only mage robes she had which had been the ones she’d given to Morrigan a long time ago. They’d also been the ones her duplicates had been running around the pseudo-Fade in. Zevran had to admit he liked them better on Moira than on Morrigan. He allowed himself the brief pleasure of fantasizing about unfastening all the straps holding the robes together then reached into his pack and handed her his cloak, “You look cold.” It was anything but cold, it was the beginning of summer.

She laughed and wrapped the cloak around herself. “Thank you. I was beginning to feel like one of the cheaper ladies in The Pearl.” 

“Never cheap, _mi amora_ ,” Zevran told her, smiling. “We should have kept your dresses.”

She stopped laughing and glared at him, “No, _you_ should have kept my pants.”

It was his turn to laugh as she continued to glare at him. She kicked her horse to the front of the group, tossing an irritated glare back at him. He grinned at her departing back. Alistair walked his horse up beside him as the small group began to follow Moira through the darkness of the night out of Perivantium. “What’s so funny?”

“Did she tell you about her dresses?”

“Just that you bought her some.”

Zevran’s grin widened. “In order to get her to wear them, I stole all her other clothes.”

Alistair twisted to stare at the elf, “And you’re still alive?” 

“By the skin of my teeth. But in my defense, they were very pretty dresses.”

Alistair laughed, “How long did they last?” 

“We made it to Antiva City before she left them with Isabella and bought new clothes.”

Alistair smiled at that and then a thought seemed to occur to him and he frowned, “She must be expecting trouble or she’d be wearing them, instead of that robe she hates.” Alistair cleared his throat and looked at Zevran, pointedly. “You never told her how you feel in return. Is she wasting her time?”

Zevran felt an unaccustomed heat fill his face at the unusually blunt question from Alistair. Hazel eyes locked on the elf mage’s back that was barely visible in the faint starlight, Zevran sighed. “I have no explanation that will not sound like a weak excuse, my friend.” _Pleading grey eyes staring up, cold steel against her graceful throat, “I love you!”_

Alistair scowled, “I don’t particularly relish the idea of her being in love with you, too. But I am still not jealous of her with you, knowing that I’ll have to leave her.” The bigger man cleared his throat. “That doesn’t mean that I will stand by and let you hurt her.”

“There was a woman once. Before I introduced myself to you two.”

“I don’t need to hear about your sordid past, Zevran. The only conquest of yours I’m worried about is Moira.” _Alistair is really very good at glowering_ , Zevran thought.

“I don’t share this story lightly, Alistair. I’ve only ever told Moira about it. But if you do not wish to hear my tragic tale, then I will not bore you.” Zevran waved his hand flippantly, mostly to remind himself it shouldn’t matter what the human man thought of him, and to ignore the fact that his own feelings where Alistair were concerned had become a murky ocean he did not wish to swim in.

The Grey Warden flushed and gestured for him to continue, “I’m sorry, Zev. Please tell me your tragic tale.”

“How gracious,” the elf told him mockingly. “I killed her.” It was short and blunt and meant to be as shocking as it sounded. Zevran was slowly coming to the conclusion that the two of them should have kept him at arm’s length. How long before he betrayed them, too?

Alistair stared at him, “And?”

The elf huffed out a breath, “Fine. I was led to believe she’d betrayed us. I chose her for our team for an assassination, and Taliesin claimed to have found out she was a traitor. I stood watching, laughing, as he slit her throat and she begged for her life, claiming she loved me.” Zevran was amazed the pain at reciting this sequence of events hadn’t resurfaced as strongly as it usually did. The first time he’d told Moira about it, he’d had to leave the camp to calm down until his turn at watch came up.

Both men were silent for a moment, their horses slowing so that they fell further behind the group. “Did you love her?” Alistair asked.

Zevran’s laugh sounded more like a choked off sob to his ears, “I do not know. I was falling for her, of that much I’m certain. I was too quick to judge her traitor. I took Taliesin’s word for it, not because I trusted him over her, but because how she made me feel terrified me.”

“You’re not reassuring me, Zevran.”

“I’m not reassuring _myself_. I am a coward, Alistair. But what’s worse is that what I feel for our Moira is. .., “ he trailed off, at a loss for words.

The king cleared his throat, “You’re in love with her and its scaring the hell out of you.”

In answer, Zevran merely said, “Rinna never betrayed our mission. It was all a trick by a Crow master to humiliate me and cause my own death. I suspected Taliesin was in on the plot to get me away from Rinna, but now that you and Moira took care of him so effectively, I will never know.”

Alistair stared ahead, “So, one lover betrayed you because you left him for another?”

Zevran blinked, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest at Alistair’s perception, “That’s one way to look at it.”

“Do you honestly think either of us would do that?”

“No, Alistair. I am afraid I would to both or either of you.”


	36. Chapter 36

“Why is he acting like this?” Moira demanded two nights from Perivantium as they were on the road to Cumberland in the Free Marches. She and Alistair were lying in the tent they had shared with Zevran, but the elf had retreated to his own tent every night since they’d left. 

Alistair wrapped his arms around her tighter, “It’s up to him to tell you.”

She turned her head that was pillowed on his biceps and stared at him in the gloomy dimness of the tent. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t fix this, Moira. He has to do it himself.” Alistair did his best to keep his face impassive as he looked at her, but his fingers knotted into fists as she tried to wriggle out of their bedding. He tightened his arms and she growled in frustration. He grinned, thinking about how adorable she sounded, but glad she couldn’t quite make out his expression. 

“Let me go, Alistair.”

“No. You can’t fix this,” he repeated. “In this instance, there’s nothing you can do except give him time.”

She settled back against his chest and he was relieved she wasn’t going to augment her strength with her mana yet and give him a chance to talk to her. “Is this jealousy on your part, Alistair?” Her voice was quiet, without the accusatory tone to go with the words.

Pain flared through his chest at her words, “Actually, no. I’m well aware this is essentially the end for us, Moira, as much as it kills me. We won’t be together again like this when we reach Denerim.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply, tightening his arms around her again. “He said he told you about Rinna?”

“Oh, Maker.” 

“Yeah. You’re going to have to give him time, Moira.”

She wriggled until every part of her back and rear were pressed against him, “All right.” 

She shifted her hips and he felt his own response instantly and groaned softly into her hair. “Don’t do that.” A quiet laugh was his reply as well as another shift of her hips. “Seriously, Moira, we need to talk.”

She twisted to look at him as he propped himself on an elbow, “All right. What?”

Alistair felt his stomach twist into knots at her tone, “I don’t really want to do this, you know.”

Her tiny hand reached up to cup his jawline, “I know. It’s killing me, too. Regardless of what I feel for Zev. I will always love you, Alistair.”

His felt his heart pound and allowed himself to drop his head onto her shoulder, her arm coming up around his neck to let her fingers trail in his hair. He held on to her as tightly as he could without crushing her. “I never should have let you do it, you know.”

Her voice was puzzled, “Do what? I’m sure there’s a great many things you probably shouldn’t have let me do, but you rarely tried to stop me.”

He held himself up just enough to look her in the eyes in the near-darkness of the tent. “I shouldn’t have forced you to lead. I shouldn’t have let you make me king. I should have knocked the cup out of Duncan’s hand the second he held it out to you.”

He waited while she stared at him, her beautiful face unreadable. Finally, she said, “You didn’t force me to do anything, Alistair. And you helped me make every single decision I ever made, including making you king. And Duncan would have killed you for that. Or worse, sent us back out for more darkspawn blood.” He saw the flash of her even, white teeth in the darkness with her last statement.

He mock growled and dug his fingers into her sides until she squealed in laughter, “Getting more blood would be worse than me dying? You little minx! Take that!” She pushed futilely at his hands, gasping for air between fits of laughter. He stilled his fingers and captured her mouth with his. She shifted under him until she could wrap her legs around his hips. Her arms went around his neck and his heart pounded harder as she returned his kiss with the same hunger.

They made love slowly and gently that night. Every other time since his release from Weisshaupt, there’d been a frantic component to Alistair’s and Moira’s unions that gave way this night to tenderness as each simply tried to memorize everything about the other. Cumberland was fast approaching and after that, Denerim was only two weeks away by boat, a week, if they found a fast ship like _The Siren’s Call_. After, Moira lay curled up against Alistair, her head on his chest, her raven curls draped over the makeshift pillow. He stared up at the ceiling of the tent, drawing his fingers gently through her hair. Sleep wasn’t coming easily, despite his fatigue and the gently snoring elf mage in his arms. 

Denerim was approaching too quickly. 

~*~

The travel to Cumberland was slow, since it was overland and the roads were poor. Other than a few attacks by wildlife and highwaymen, they traveled unmolested. And Alistair watched the growing rift between the two elves worriedly. He wasn’t entirely sure why Zevran was acting as if everything before Perivantium had never happened. 

Correction, he was acting as if it didn’t matter. And Alistair was left with the rather difficult task of comforting his lover over the loss of her other lover. Leliana couldn’t tell a tale this twisted. He sat staring into the fire as Moira gathered every dish in camp to wash in an effort to simply stay busy. She’d lifted her load of pots and plates and with a glare, ordered only Perrin to accompany her. The king glanced up from the flames to find Zevran staring off in the direction Moira had disappeared to while he repeatedly sharpened the same spot over and over on his dagger. Shale had gone off to find more wood and Cullen was studiously ignoring both Zevran and Alistair, while Wynne and Jowan were talking shop as they all ate. 

As Alistair watched, Zevran seemed to come to some sort of decision and sheathed his dagger in his boot. He stood up, and pocketing the whetstone, he walked in Moira’s direction. Alistair rolled his eyes. The bloody elf was just going to make things worse. Not even Alistair would try and approach her in this mood, especially not with Perrin picking up her emotions and acting on them. The mabari had been irritable all day along with his mistress. He got up to follow him, not quite as silently and gracefully as the assassin, but he did he best. It wasn’t easy to sneak around in full plate armor, even if it was dragonbone.

He finally found them, standing in a small clearing near a stream, lit by a small ball of light Moira had conjured to let her see what she was doing. Perrin was nowhere to be seen. She was glaring up at Zevran, her small hands on her hips, her long black hair tied at her nape to keep it out of her way. The blue silk of the mage robes she was wearing shone with each of her movements in the flicking light. Alistair leaned against a tree to watch. He knew he should be ashamed of eavesdropping, but whatever these two did would impact him as well. At least until Denerim.

Zevran stood in front of her, his posture uncertain, which was alien for the elf. “You have treated me like a consolation prize from the very beginning, Moira. How can you blame me for being wary?”

Her voice broke, “A consolation prize? A consolation prize!” Alistair winced in sympathy as she slapped the taller elf across his tanned cheek. “You – and no one else—were the first person I took to my bed! How is that a consolation prize?” 

Zevran clenched his fists, but held his hands at his sides, not even lifting one hand to touch his stinging jaw. “You were in love with Alistair even then!”

“And you couldn’t make up your mind which of us to bed first!” she snarled back. “Sometimes I wonder if the only reason I got that honor is because he doesn’t like men!”

Alistair felt his stomach clench, is that what she actually thought, that she was Zevran’s consolation prize as well? He remembered the elf questioning every single one of their companions except him and Wynne regarding their loyalty to her. He was pretty sure the elf shook down Bodhan at one point. “Do you truly believe that, _mi amora_?” Alistair was astonished to hear pain in the elf’s voice.

“Don’t call me that unless you mean it.” Her voice was low, warning him.

The assassin spun away, his gloved hands over his eyes, “You are the most irritating woman! I am trying to apologize for being an ass!” Moira’s jaw dropped at the same time Zevran spun back to her and grapped her upper arms, yanking him to her. “I pushed you away. Again! I’m still pushing you away!”

Tilting her head up to look at him, she responded, “Yes, you did and you are. Why?”

“Because you shouldn’t trust me.”

“You’re an idiot, Zevran Arainai.”

He hung his head, “I know.” He turned to look right where Alistair was standing in the shadows of the trees, “You can come out now, my Warden.”

Annoyed he was found out, Alistair nonetheless complied with the request. “Are you done?” 

Zevran released Moira and Alistair watched his approach warily. He decided he didn’t like the sly grin on the other man’s face and stepped backward. The last thing the king wanted was another kiss from the assassin. Seeing him step back, Zevran’s face fell into a pout, “I am merely trying to apologize to you, as well.”

Alistair held up his hands, “Don’t worry about it. Apology accepted. Just stay right there.”

Moira made an exasperated noise, “Don’t change the subject, Zevran!” He turned to look at her and Alistair could see the small muscle in his jaw working as he clenched his teeth, despite his irreverent expression. The mage put her hands back on her hips and demanded, “I want to know why I should not trust you?”

“I am an assassin,” he told her, stepping back.

She advanced, “And? I’m a mage. I’m far less trustworthy than you. After all, I could traffic in demons at the drop of a hat! Try again.”

Zevran stepped back again, “I tried to kill you.”

“It was only the once and it didn’t take. Try again.” She advanced after him.

He took two steps back, “I have a price.”

“Everyone has a price, Zevran. What is yours?” She took three steps forward until they were almost touching. Alistair felt like he was intruding, but he couldn’t stop watching. He wrenched his eyes away and turned to leave, but Moira’s voice stopped him cold, “Don’t move. I’m not through with you yet, either.”

The ex-Templar turned to look at the tiny woman he loved and found her glaring at him, with Zevran staring at her, a terrified expression on his face. Satisfied he wasn’t going anywhere, Moira turned back to Zevran, but not before he’d managed to wipe the fear from his face, “Well?” she demanded.

“I – ,”

“You can’t name one, can you? There’s no price in Thedas that would get you to betray us. To betray me.” He backed up again. Where he thought he was going, Alistair had no idea. “Why shouldn’t I trust you? Tell me!” She shouted.

Something in Zevran seemed to snap, his full lips twisted with rage and his hazel eyes narrowed to slits. He grabbed her arms again and bent to hiss at her, “Because I kill everyone I love!”


	37. Chapter 37

Cumberland made Denerim look provincial. Even Antiva City was dwarfed by the sheer size of the Nevarran port. Humans of all shapes and sizes and a nearly equal number of elves hurried through the sandstone paved streets on urgent errands. The small group trailed behind Alistair and Moira, letting him use their cover story of somewhat prosperous merchants. 

Moira stared around her in awe. She might be the Blight Queller, the Archdemon Slayer, the Commander of the Ferelden Grey, but she’d never seen this many people in one place in her life. She tugged at the gold collar around her neck, realizing that all the elves she saw wore some variation around their necks, some silver, some bronze, with a very few gold like hers and Zevran’s. The Assassin had insisted they purchase the collars in a small town they’d come across in Nevarra. Alistair had had to do some fast talking to convince the shop owner that they were indeed his property, they just needed new collars. They had cost a great deal of their remaining money, but Moira supposed they’d get it all back when they were out of Nevarra and sold the horrid things.

When the heavy shackle was put around her neck, Moira had done her best to remain docile, but from the flinch Alistair gave when he met her eyes, she didn’t think she’d succeeded. Or, he felt truly terrible about having to even pretend he owned her. She’d met Zevran’s eyes and he just seemed sad for a moment before his usual cheer resurfaced. When they were away from the shop, he’d explained that the different precious metals in the collars meant level of skill. He’d made sure that she and he were collared as very skilled, indeed, indicating a high price for their servitude to explain Alistair’s reluctance to part with them. It also allowed him to carry his weapons as a skilled bodyguard.

Therefore, despite her awe at the city, the fact that there were virtually no uncollared elves made her blood boil. It didn’t help her temper that there were still quite a few collared humans. Most of them wore the gold collars of skilled laborers like she and Zevran, but there were still fewer of them than the elves. Alistair’s scowl seemed to deepen at every collared elf and human he saw. Zevran’s face was, of course, impassively blank, but from his grip on the reigns of his horse he wasn’t any happier than Alistair. While she was watching, he absently raised his free hand to tug on his own collar. Wynne rode on her other side in her place as beloved aunt to Alistair and Cullen. “Just remember, it’s only a ruse. And a temporary one at that.”

Moira glanced at her friend out of the corner of her eye as they walked their horses. “Doesn’t make it easier to bear for the other elves for whom it’s a reality.”

“I realize that, Moira. But you cannot defeat the entire city. And if you managed, somehow, to do as Andraste did and free all of these elves, where would they go? The Dalish haven’t the resources to take so many in. Their former captors would not welcome them back to pay them for the same jobs they aren’t being paid for now,” Wynne pointed out reasonably.

“Doesn’t make it right,” Moira failed to keep the petulance out of her voice.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Wynne said placidly. “But you have the ability to fix things in Ferelden, first.” Moira understood her logic, but right then, she hated the older mage for the first time in her life.

“Wynne, by our power, we are considered lesser by birth. By my gender, I’m lesser. By my _race_ , I’m considered barely more than an animal. And you’re telling me to let it lie?” Moira’s said around teeth clenched against the need to shout.

“All right, look at it from a tactical perspective, my dear. Not even you and Alistair can take on that many soldiers,” she gestured with her chin to a three-man deep column marching by, their steel breastplates shining brightly in the morning sunlight. “Also, Alistair can hardly go around fighting foreign armies with impunity. It could drag Ferelden into something it cannot finish, right now.”

“On that, you have a point,” Moira acknowledged, her teeth still clenched.

“Then you must play your part and stop glaring at every human we meet or one of them is going to say something and force Alistair to react.” Wynne’s logic was inescapable, but irritating. 

“Fine. I’ll glare at the ground,” the Chancellor of Ferelden grated out.

Wynne laughed, “If you must glare, that’s a good place to start.”

Moira grunted and sped up to walk next to Alistair, not much worried about protocol. “I think the docks are that way, Master.” 

He glanced at her, pain fleeting across his face. He looked like he was going to tell her not to call him that, but thought better of it and only said, “From the stench of salt and dead fish, you’re probably right. Er, um, good girl?” Alistair attempted to grin encouragingly at her but only succeeded in looking nauseated. Perrin moved to try to walk with her, but she gestured sharply and the dog whined, ducked his head and continued to walk next to Alistair. 

He steered them in the direction of the docks. Moira walked with him, trying to remind herself to be docile and that this wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were just trying to not call attention to themselves. “Well, well, well, what’s this?” A heavily Nevarran accented voice stopped Alistair and their group in their tracks.

“Can I help you?” Alistair asked. His tone seemed polite, a merchant’s tone, asking after a customer’s needs. 

Moira turned her head slightly to see who’d stopped them. She was careful to not be seen looking, but wanted to be prepared. The person who stopped them was a heavily made up, older woman with dyed raven hair and more jewels than Moira had ever seen on one person in her life. She was seated in a sedan chair and carried by four very large, very heavily muscled human men with silver collars. She reached down to tap one on the shoulder and they lowered her in one smooth motion. Moira felt her skin crawl as the woman’s nearly colorless eyes fixed on her. The slaves held their hands out and the woman used them to climb down. The old woman approached them, her gaze still riveted to Moira. She felt Zevran grasp her hand tightly. “How much for the elf?”

Alistair crossed his arms, “They’re not for sale.”

Moira felt her stomach turn as the woman smiled, her yellowed teeth parting as she licked her dry lips, “For any price?” 

“They’re far too valuable to sell.” Moira recognized the note of warning in Alistair’s voice. 

Her pale eyes flicked to Zevran and she smirked, “You don’t even know which one I want.” The woman’s voice turned into a purr as she grasped Moira’s chin and turned her face from side to side, examining her. Moira tried not to inhale the smell of age on the woman’s breath that was stronger than even the stench of salt and dead fish from the docks. “I have rarely seen an elf of such beauty. I will give you enough gold to purchase ten women of her skill level.”

She saw Alistair’s fists drop to his side, clenched. Moira was doing her best to keep her rage under control before she inadvertently ripped the Fade open and threw a fireball at the disgusting woman. She could feel Wynne and Jowan gathering their will, however. “She. Is. Not. For. Sale. Get your hands off my slave.”

“Surely no concubine is worth turning down that great a fortune!” she snarled.

“I’ll thank you to keep your hands off what’s mine!” Alistair shouted. 

She jerked her hand free of Moira’s chin, leaving stinging prints on her fair skin. She heard Zevran’s intake of breath at the finger marks. The wretched woman rounded on Alistair. “I get what I want, young man. One way or another,” she informed him coldly. She climbed back into the sedan chair, glaring at Alistair who met her eyes defiantly. The unnamed woman snapped her fingers imperiously and her slaves stood up with the chair. Still glaring at Alistair, she motioned for them to bear her away. 

“Well, that could have gone better,” Wynne said, allowing her mana to dissipate.

Zevran snorted, “We’d better get the hell out of Cumberland tonight. We just made a very powerful woman, very angry.”

~*~

Moira stared at the ceiling in the small room they’d gotten in an inn near the harbor. It had taken them all day to find that only ship bound for Ferelden was not ready to leave for another three days to a week. And it was headed to Highever and not Denerim. Moira folded her arms across her stomach and sighed. It was better than nothing. 

The wide bed was wrapped round with mosquito netting and the row of tall and wide windows along the walls ensured a cooling night breeze from off the sea and the sheer linen curtains blew inward on the gusts of wind. Crickets and crying gulls mingled with the sound of Alistair sharpening his sword on a whetstone and Perrin’s snoring, the rhythm of the chorus contributing to Moira’s sleepiness. Of course, the huge amount of fish and rice she’d just inhaled at dinner contributed to her lassitude, as did the half-naked elf spooned against her side, breathing deeply in his sleep, his breath tickling her neck. The heat of the night didn’t help, but the sweat pooling between her breasts and beading up on the rest of her skin was the reason she was still awake at all. Zevran’s body heat didn’t help, either.

“We can’t keep getting delayed like this, Alistair,” she told the king.

The rhythm paused and resumed, “I know. Are you certain it must be Anora behind all this? The assassins, too?”

Zevran flung his arm over her stomach and she glared at the sleeping assassin before answering Alistair in hushed tones, “Unless you want to suspect Eamon of thinking he could run the country better than you?”

Alistair snorted and the sounds of him putting away the whetstone and blowing out the candles he’d been using for light answered her. Darkness filled the room, the white curtains glowing from the moonlight outside. She turned on her side to watch the tall human approach through the gauzy netting. He bent to place the sword on the floor next to the bed and stood up; he was wearing only the thin breeches he usually slept in. She pulled the linen shirt of his she’d been wearing as nightshirt down over her hips, the act of turning over and the weight of Zevran’s arm had caused it to ride up. Absently, her fingers went to her neck and felt for the collar around it before remembering that she and Zevran had taken them off to sleep. 

As he crept in under the netting, Alistair whispered, “I know you don’t trust Eamon, love. But he wouldn’t betray me like that. Not after going through so much trouble to get me on the throne.” He slid his arm under her head and lay down next to her. 

Moira put her own hand on his bare stomach and rested her head on his shoulder. “I hate Nevarra. It’s too bloody hot to do anything.”

Alistair chuckled softly, “Are you sure it has nothing to do with those ridiculous collars?” 

“Those, too. Next time, you get to pretend to be the slave.” She tilted her head up to him. 

His eyes glinted in the dim moonlight filtering in through the room. “I thought I told you that everyone already believes I’m your slave anyway. Or at least your sex slave.” He angled his head to kiss her gently. 

She returned it, but settled back down to try to sleep. Ordinarily, it was wonderful sleeping between them, but it felt as if everywhere she turned, she stuck to someone else’s skin. The bed was too small to separate them, not that any of them actually wanted to be even a few inches away from the other even for a night. Sleep finally arrived when Alistair’s soft snoring joined Perrin’s noisier snorts.

~*~

Moira woke to birds singing outside, almost drowned out by the cacophony of various merchants hawking their wares in the market square behind the inn. The sun had barely risen and already it was stifling. She was startled to find she was on the outside of the bed and not wedged between the two men. She felt the bed shift behind her and turned her head to see Alistair at her back, flat on his, still snoring softly, still sleeping. She’d only been touching his outflung arm, using it as a pillow for her head. It had been too hot to sleep with even a sheet over them so she saw Zevran’s tanned arm draped across Alistair’s pale stomach and the elf’s half-lidded hazel eyes watched her from where he lay with his head on the other man’s shoulder, mimicking her posture from last night. She must’ve looked confused because he whispered, “You were complaining in your sleep that it was too hot and we needed to stop touching you. But you wouldn’t wake up. So our Alistair switched places with you.” 

Moira turned over and settled herself in against Alistair’s side, her face close to Zevran’s. She entangled her fingers with his and asked, “And are you all right with your sleeping arrangements last night?” 

He gave her a grumpy look, “He did not think I was too hot to sleep against.”

“I’m sorry, Zevran.” She leaned over Alistair to kiss the other man in apology. The elf’s fingers tightened over hers as he met her halfway. Zevran was an entirely different kisser than Alistair. He teased and prodded gently, Alistair was all hunger and force. And they both made her wanting more with each kiss. As she kissed Zevran, she felt a large hand on her back, gently running up and down her spine under the thin shirt. She shivered against Alistair and tightened her fingers on Zevran’s and kissed him harder. Breathless, she finally separated enough from Zevran to find that Alistair had woken and was watching them. 

“Fine way to wake a man up.” His blond brows drew together, “What? None for me?”

Zevran laughed, “Well, if you insist…” He leaned down to kiss Alistair before the bigger man could squirm away. 

~*~

Fully dressed in the scant mage robes with her collar in place again, Moira and Perrin followed Alistair and Zevran out of their room to meet the others. They were getting low on coin and needed to earn more until they could sell the ridiculous collars, or have them melted back down into the coins they’d once been. They all congregated in Wynne’s and Shale’s room, since it was the most centrally located. The elder mage was sitting calmly with a cup of tea at her elbow and the dwarf was sharpening her assortment of blades. It was an impressive collection and Moira wondered where she stored them all. Jowan and Cullen entered shortly after Moira and her men. The small group arrayed themselves around the room, making it seem even tinier than it was. Each of the rooms had only one bed. She figured Shale made Wynne sleep on the bed, taking the floor for herself, since the dwarf’s cloak and bedroll were folded up in a corner. She wondered what Jowan and Cullen had worked out, but decided not to ask. 

“Thanks to these Blighted collars, we’re running low on coin. We need to start earning some.”

Shale set her dagger and whetstone down to look at Moira, “Is it,” she grunted, closed her eyes and sighed, then tried again, “Are _you_ suggesting we wander around the town looking for work?”

Zevran chuckled, “It worked for us during the Blight, did it not?” 

Moira shrugged, “We’re stuck here for at least three days. Hopefully, no more than that. And we’re going to need more than that if you want to stay in this inn and not one as secure or as nice. Or worse, camp outside the town and sleep on the ground.”

Shale made a face at that, “Wynne would get no sleep that way.”

“I know,” Moira replied, “It’s why we’re in this inn in the first place.”

“You can stop making special accommodations for me, Moira. I’m perfectly capable….” Wynne began, setting her teacup down in annoyance.

Alistair crossed to her quickly and went down on one knee in front of her, “Let us do this for you, Wynne. It’s the least we can do. You’ve taken care of us; let us take care of you.”

The old mage looked at the young king, her eyes searching his face. “All right. If you promise not to take foolish risks.”

“Damn, there goes all my fun,” the king teased.

Moira looked down at her Mabari, “Perrin, stay here and take care of Wynne. Jowan, have you learned enough to be able to heal on your own?”

“I—I believe so.”

Moira nodded sharply, “Zevran and I are with Alistair, since he owns us.” She rolled her eyes and Alistair scowled at the reminder. “Shale, try to keep Jowan and Cullen alive, please?”

The dwarf woman rose to her feet and sheathed her freshly sharpened sword, “I will. Where do you suggest we look first?”

“Check the Chantry. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go within ten feet of there, we don’t know how they feel about mage slaves, after all.”

Cullen nodded, “Good point. We should probably find that out while we’re there, too. I assume we’re not Grey Wardens today?”

“Unless you find other members of the Grey who will know what we are, no,” Alistair told him.

“Meet back here, or send word, by noon,” Moira told them by way of dismissal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally wrote this, we had very little information on Nevarra. Cassandra Pentaghast hadn't even been created yet. All the codex would say made it sound like a culture loosely based on our ancient Egypt with its emphasis on elaborate burial rituals. I took it a few steps further and extrapolated that if cults of the dead could proliferate under the Chatry's nose, the legal fiction that generational indentured servitude could, too. Otherwise known as slavery. Legally speaking, they're paying off the collars around their necks. They're not slaves. Right? 
> 
> (Right, and I have some oceanfront property in the Frostbacks to sell you. --Zevran)


	38. Chapter 38

It had been a long day. Zevran lay in their bed in the inn, his head pillowed on Alistair’s arm and Moira sprawled between them. Both of them were sound asleep. It was more comfortable tonight, a brief coastal thunderstorm had blown in and washed some of the heat out of the air. He stared sightlessly at the netting draped over the bed frame, thinking. 

They’d been jumped not long after leaving the inn that morning. He hadn’t been able to identify their attackers, but could only rule out that they weren’t Crows. He suspected they were slave takers hired by that horrid old woman that had shown such a liking of Moira. They’d been too organized and too focused on her to be anything else. And Moira had been limited in her fighting ability by trying to hide her magical skills. Fortunately, he, Alistair and Perrin had been able to fight them off and keep her safe.

He knew the three of them and the mabari were ridiculously awesome fighters, but, with Moira hamstrung without her magic, it severely hampered their defenses and that old woman was going to get lucky. He had no desire to try to rescue Moira from yet another captor. And in a city with which he was unfamiliar, no less. Moira shifted in her sleep and wriggled closer to him, nestling her head on his shoulder, her leg sliding in between his and her body against him until his arm was wedged between her back and Alistair’s side. He leaned his head against hers for a moment, content to just lie there, inhaling her scent. He couldn’t stay this way, though, and not take care of what he needed to.

Gently, he guided her back to snuggling against Alistair. When he was certain she was settled and sleeping soundly, he climbed out of the bed as stealthily as he could, barely moving the mattress. He crept over to his gear, only Perrin waking up to look at him. When Zevran put his finger to his lips, the dog put his head back on his paws and went back to sleep. Doing his best to keep his metal buckles and straps from clinking together, the assassin armored himself. Sheathing Starfang on his back he turned to find Alistair standing in the middle of the room wearing only the thin breeches he slept in, moonlight illuminating a scowl on his handsome face. “Where do you think you’re going?” the king hissed angrily. 

The elf’s eyes darted to the bed where Moira stirred. He was glad she was a sound sleeper, but she wasn’t that sound. “As long as we’re here, that woman is a danger to Moira.”

Alistair stepped closer, his muscular arms crossed over his bare chest, a light sheen of sweat beading in the blonde chest hair. Zevran spared a thought of appreciation for the magnificent sight before wrenching his gaze back up to the taller man’s hazel eyes. “So you’re going to put yourself in danger to stop her?” Alistair demanded.

Wrenching a buckle tighter, Zevran whispered back, “No one in her estates will know I’m there until the deed is done. I am a very good assassin, my friend.”

If it were possible, Alistair’s scowl deepened, “You’re not that good.”

Zevran stifled a laugh, “Are you concerned for me, _mi amor_? Do not worry, I will be back in your arms before morning.”

Alistair’s eyes widened, then narrowed, “No, you’re not getting out of this just by making me uncomfortable. Do you know what it’ll do to her if you don’t come back?”

Zevran closed his eyes and nodded, “I know. But I know what it’ll do to me, and to you, if this woman succeeds her gambit.” Zevran opened his eyes and smiled slowly, “And I also know she will not be the only one distressed by my death.”

The king stared at him, open-mouthed, “You…I…, no.” 

Zevran closed the distance between them, his face turned up to the bigger man, “Soon, you will kiss me of your own accord.” Before Alistair could step back, Zevran put a hand on either side of his face and pulled the other man’s mouth to his. The elf could feel his heart pound in his chest. He could admit to himself, in times like this, that he did want more than friendship from the other man. He had no hope of ever getting more, however. The Grey Warden was flamingly heterosexual, after all, and though Zevran preferred women, Alistair was a great temptation, even without Moira between them. Alistair’s hands grasped Zevran’s upper arms tight enough to bruise. The bigger man shoved the elf away and stepped back, wiping his mouth. Zevran grinned, “Until then, that will have to do.” 

“Why do you do that?” Alistair demanded, his arms crossed over his chest defensively instead of his earlier posture of aggression.

Zevran sighed, “Since I am going to my possible death to protect the woman we both love, I shall be honest with you.” The elf felt like his chest was going to explode with how hard his heart was pounding. He was surprised with himself. He was really going to tell this to the other man out loud instead of an imagined conversation that always ended badly. “I … love Moira. And you love Moira. And I should be thinking of you as a rival. But I cannot. Whether it’s because your friendship means a great deal to me, or because,” at this thought, the elf couldn’t help himself: his eyes started at the handsome man’s face and traveled down over the broad shoulders, taut stomach, narrow hips, muscular thighs and bare feet and back up, “you are just that attractive.” His grin widened as Alistair rolled his eyes, “Or I am indeed the masochist Moira accuses me of being. I cannot hate you. I do not know what it is I feel for you, but I do like kissing you.”

Alistair shook his head, ruefully, “What am I supposed to do now? Let you walk out of here and risk your life?”

“No,” Zevran told him, “You are going to stay and guard the one person that is the most precious to both of us. This woman may send her thugs after our Moira again, thinking darkness will catch us off-guard.”

“You may be right. I should probably ask Shale to sit in here with me.”

Zevran shook his head, “No. Instead, set a trap. The thug we questioned today was very informative about the location of Lady Nazzim’s compound. I hope to be back in time to help you spring it if I cannot find the old woman herself and put a stop to this.”

“You mean kill her.”

“I certainly was not going there to inundate her with harsh language, my dear Alistair.” The assassin crossed to the window and sat on the sill, the curtains gently blowing around him in the night breeze. Alistair turned to watch him, his face unreadable. “If I do not come back, do not come for me. It means I failed. Get her out of Nevarra at any cost. Lady Nazzim’s vengeance will be swift.” 

Alistair looked around the room, briefly, and told the elf, “Wait, you forgot this. It should protect you somewhat.” He picked up the heavy gold collar and brought it to the assassin. Zevran made no move to take it, his skin crawled at the very idea. But the king was correct. The collar would protect him somewhat. He still didn’t want to take it, though. If the other man wanted him to wear it, he’d have to put it on him himself. 

The thought must’ve occurred to Alistair, too. He unfolded the ornately linked collar and leaned over to fasten it around the elf’s neck. He paused for a moment, his cheek nearly touching Zevran’s, and whispered in the elf’s ear, causing a trembling shiver down his spine, “Come back to us.” Zevran didn’t respond. As Alistair stepped back, he wordlessly turned and jumped, landing on the roof of the awning over the inn’s doorway. He spared a moment to look up and saw nothing in the darkened window to indicate Alistair was still standing there, but the assassin felt the other man’s eyes on him anyway. He pulled the shadows around him and melted into the night, running silently for the location of Lady Nazzim’s estates.

It took a while to get there on foot, even moving as quickly and silently as he could through the night-darkened streets. When he arrived at the location the thug they’d questioned told him about, Zevran swung himself up into a tree whose low-hanging branches stretched out over the narrow street. He climbed until he could perch on a branch overhanging the grounds, simply watching from his vantage point.

Ordinarily, a job such as this would be done after days of reconnaissance, of tracking the guards’ night-time patrol patterns, of finding the best, most silent means of entry. Or even better, ingratiating himself into the household as a suitor or lover or servant. This would be a fast and dirty piece of work with brute force being the necessary tool. The grounds below him stretched silently ahead of him up to the front door. The manicured flower beds and ruthlessly trimmed bushes creating many exquisite hiding places for him to run between before entering the main building. The central structure was a huge whitewashed stucco mansion with a red clay tiled roof and matching painted shutters closed over darkened windows. Statuary was placed at regular intervals around the building adding to the shadows in which Zevran could hide.

The guards moved over the grounds, some wearing silver collars, others wearing the cheaper bronze, in regular intervals. None of them looked right or left, or even up. Each of the elves and humans were lightly armed and stared only straight ahead along their path. Their collars and the bright steel of their unused weapons glinted brightly in the moonlight. Counting the flashes from the metals, the assassin could see at least ten guards patrolling the perimeter of the grounds. The pair below him met and told each other, “The night is clear,” before spinning on their heels and turning to resume their same circuit. Zevran shook his head. _They are slaves and forced into this, yes. But if you were going to protect somewhere, you should do it thoroughly,_ he thought to himself. Zevran flung himself down to the ground silently when the guards were out of earshot but still facing away from his position. He sprinted across the open ground, crouched low, and threw himself into the shadows provided by the topiary bushes in the middle of the garden. He was worried about noise, not crushing flowers that wouldn’t be seen until morning. He paused, waiting for an alarm to sound, in case one of the guards was actually paying attention.

When none came, he ran quickly to the large structure ahead of him and to a small window at the base of the house that was propped open to catch any breeze on this still and humid night. The elf wiped sweat from his forehead and carefully pried the window open further to slip inside. He hoped he was entering an empty room, but there was no time to verify it. He slid through the opening and dropped feet first into what appeared to be a cellar. He crouched again, his eyes scanning the darkened area for movement and his ears straining for sound. The cellar was filled with dusty racks of wine bottles and around the floor were assorted stacked barrels of the same. He spared a brief thought to wondering if the estate was actually a vineyard. From the smell of vinegar and grapes and dust, he thought it likely. _Not a good idea to wonder about the mark’s life, Zev_ , he thought. _You think of them as people and you won’t get the job done._ He paused in his thoughts for a moment, _Nonsense_ , he chided himself. _For Moira, you would_.

He crept out of the cellar and up a set of sturdy stairs that ran alongside a ramp for rolling the casks. He crept through the door, careful to not open it too far since he didn’t know what shape the hinges were in and a squeak could wake up someone enough to sound the alarm. He paused, looking around the cavernous kitchen. Two massive hearths stood next to each other along the far wall. The fires were banked for the night, the coals giving off a sullen glow in the dimness, enough to slightly illuminate the room. A giant heavy wooden table for food preparation ran the length of the kitchen. The walls were mostly windows, the shutters closed for the night, making the room stuffier than it needed to be. He could see the shadows of various cuts of meat hanging from the rafters on one side of the room and smell the fragrance of drying herbs above him. A pile of kitchen rags was gathered in corner, away from the fires. He turned to leave the kitchen in search of the old woman’s rooms when he heard a rustling sound and before he could move, he felt the pressure of a blade against his back and heard a hoarse feminine voice demand, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Zevran froze, his mind racing. Ah, yes, the pile of rags in the corner. He kicked himself for not thinking of the scullion whose job was to mind the coals in the night. “I’m merely testing your master’s security. She hired my master for the job.” It was a standard lie he usually trotted out when caught in an infiltration. 

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?” the raspy voice grated out.

“I do not know. I have not seen you.” Zevran quipped, hoping to goad the scullion into making a mistake. The assassin didn’t have enough information on his assailant at the moment to figure out the best way to take him or her down. He would have to wait for their resolve to falter.

The voice then made a mistake, “Turn around then!”

The assassin grinned to himself, this would be easier than he thought. “As you wish.” He turned to face the scullion and found himself looking down at a human child of indeterminate gender. The hair was a matted dirty brown color with glints of the bright red that it might actually be if cleaned. The face was covered in dirt and pinched with starvation. Solemn brown eyes stared up at Zevran, narrowed in anger. The clothes the child was wearing were more patched and stitched together than were original fabric. Bare dirty toes peeked out from under raggedly hemmed trousers. The cleanest thing on the child was a shining copper collar that barely hid scarring massed across the neck. _That explains the ruined voice_ , Zevran thought to himself, steeling himself against wincing in sympathy.

The child surprised him again by flipping the knife in his hand and handing it handle first to Zevran, “You are here to kill my master.” Zevran’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline at the certainty in the child’s voice.

“And how do you know this?” 

The child merely gave him a pitying look. “Take me with you when you leave and I will show you where she sleeps.”

“And why would I agree to that? I am a slave as you are.”

“Your collar doesn’t sit right; it’s not welded on to you. You are no slave.” The child’s voice made Zevran want to clear his throat.

He went for honesty, knowing what the child would say in return, “No, I am not.”

“Then you take me with you, or I shout the alarm and tell everyone you’re a runaway. You’re an elf! You have to be a slave!” The child’s logic was inescapable given the world he’d grown up in and the abuse he’d suffered. For just one moment, Zevran was seven years old and back in the Crow’s barracks, curled up on his bunk, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as the stripes on his back bled through the thin shirt he wore. He shook his head to get rid of the memory and resisted the urge to touch his own back to reassure himself there were no wounds. 

“Where I come from, there are no slaves,” Zevran told the urchin. 

The child’s eyes widened. “Where is that?”

“Ferelden. “ He was surprised at that. He hadn’t really thought of himself of being from anywhere but Antiva in a very long time. “Show me your master’s quarters and I will bring you there.” He hadn’t been lying, there were no slaves in Ferelden, especially not since Alistair had been crowned. And Loghain had been beheaded for his trafficking, among other crimes. Even the mages were not slaves, not legally anyway. They were just prisoners. It was a cold and damp country, but he realized he hadn’t been lying to the child or himself when he said he was from there. As he told Alistair so long ago, it was his adopted country.

The child grinned, teeth broken and stained, “You can call me Ash,” and then scampered off ahead of him, bare feet moving silently on the stone floors. Zevran shook his head and followed the urchin. The child took him through the twists and turns of the servants’ passages in the mansion. He moved oddly until Zevran realized the swift hopping motion he was making avoided any squeaking boards. Shaking his head in amusement, Zevran followed, his longer legs making it easier to avoid the old slats. 

They wound around the building; the servants’ corridors never took the shortest path anywhere. The urchin led him up one narrow staircase after another. Despite his best efforts, doubts slithered into Zevran’s mind.

_What am I doing?_

_Moira . . . Moira wouldn’t forgive this._

_Yes, she would. She’s ruthless, just like you._

_No, not like me._

_Exactly like you. She hired you to remove some resistance in the Bannorn._

_She threatened them, she didn’t want them dead. This is different._

_You’re right, it is. This threatens her directly. Didn’t I vow no harm would ever come to her if I could prevent it?_

_And I’m preventing it. I hope I can live with this._

_I will. Even if she sends me away._

His doubts resolved, Zevran unsheathed Starfang as the urchin stopped in the hall. The child gestured that the room he was looking for was the third door on the left. The assassin nodded and glanced down at the brightly shining green blade. _We will protect her, you and I._

The child silently stepped to one side, very obviously not stepping on the floorboard in the middle of the doorway. Zevran avoided the board as well and silently unlatched the door. Peering in through the crack, he saw a large room with tall arched windows lining two walls, gauzy pale blue curtains blowing into the room in the night breeze. The scent of jasmine and torch smoke wafting in through the windows and was strong enough to mask any other scent except for the smell the elderly inevitably accumulated about them. Candles burned low in various sconces and candelabras placed strategically. Between the guttering candles and the moonlight outside, the spacious room was fairly well-lit. The giant bed was to the left of the door and the gauzy insect netting did nothing to conceal the sleeping woman. 

To the right, a vividly painted screen closed off the bathing area from the rest of the room. There was an archway on the other side of the bathtub and screen that led to a separate sitting room, probably accessible from the door to his right in the servant’s hall. His heart beating quickly with the impending danger of what he was about to attempt, Zevran crept into the room at a crouch. Every nerve screamed in tension as he opened his senses to hear or even smell whether there were guards or servants near by. If there were, they were not in this room. The old woman let out a stenorous snore as she turned over. 

She lay curled slightly on her side, propped against several pillows, her wizened face slack in sleep, the expensive cosmetics that gave her a parody of youth gone. Was she someone’s mother? Grandmother? _Stop, Zev,_ he told himself. _You know better_. He was losing his stomach for the kill, it seemed. But weakening now wouldn’t keep her safe. It wouldn’t keep her out of this woman’s grasp. He knew that, for Moira – and, now, even Alistair – he would kill a legion of grandmothers to keep them safe. Even if she condemned him for it.

Swiftly, he pulled a pillow out from under the old woman’s head and held it across her face.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Read at your own risk.

It was dawn when Zevran ushered the child back to the inn. He had the vague plan of dashing off a note and handing it to the urchin to pass to Moira and then skipping town, but he told himself he needed to make sure the child was safely with Moira and her – their – companions. After all, if he left, she couldn’t condemn him for what he’d just done, could she? He could drop off the child and slip away. He could buy new gear. But then, he was wearing half the Ferelden Treasury on his neck and still carrying Starfang. That made his decision. He was no thief. He would at least return the collar and the sword. It would be more dangerous without them both, but he could get to Antiva or Orlais without attracting attention.

He just had to face Moira.

He ushered Ash into the common room and was surprised to find Cullen, wearing only a tunic and trousers and not his armor, already awake and sitting at a table with Wynne. The Grey Warden raised his head and sat his tankard down. “She’s waiting for you.”

Wynne, sitting across from him with her back to the door, turned to watch Zevran enter, “Cullen, mind your manners. Who’s this, Zevran?” Perrin, who’d been sitting at her feet, got up to sniff the child who immediately shrieked and hid behind the elf. Perrin dropped to his haunches with an offended look on his canine face.

“This is Ash. He asked for the only kind of assistance we can provide for one in his situation. I think you can guess why.” The assassin reached behind him and pulled the child out to stand in front of him. He put his hands on the thin shoulders. “Ash, this is Wynne and Cullen. They will take care of you.”

The child craned his neck up to look worriedly at Zevran, “But, the dog…”

“Will not bite. Will you Perrin?” The mabari looked insulted and hung his head in a sulk. “See? Don’t bite him, he won’t bite you. Do as Wynne and Cullen say, all right?”

The child nodded, “All right.”

Zevran looked at Cullen, “And?”

The bearded man shook his head, “Just go. Last time she looked that pissed she kicked my ass. She won’t even talk to the k – Alistair.”

The assassin smiled at the child and gently handed him over to Wynne. He crossed to the wide, marble stairs and squared his shoulders before climbing them. He was an unrepentant murderer; he deserved whatever she’d decide to do with him.

He was surprised, however, to find Alistair standing in the hall fitfully illuminated by a few guttering lanterns, outside their room. Relief spread across the taller man’s features as Zevran approached and the elf was surprised to find himself engulfed in a bear hug from the king. Automatically, his arms went around the other man. “I’m glad you came back.” Alistair straightened up, putting his hands on Zevran’s shoulders. “Now, go talk to her.” The desire to make a quip about a kiss hello died at the concerned look on his friend’s face.

Everyone telling him that was not helping his sense of dread. He couldn’t decide if he really wanted her to be angry with him, to just throw him out. It would end this constant wondering if he was worthy of her, though, and the doubt that was beginning to surface about Alistair’s intentions. Wordlessly he nodded and slipped into the room. It was still darkened -- the dim light of the dawn hadn’t quite reached this side of the building. He closed the door behind him. As his eyes adjusted, he realized she was standing in front of one of the large windows, leaning on the sill, and wearing one of his shirts this time, not Alistair’s. It was tighter on her showing more of her slender curves and much shorter, ending at the tops of her thighs. If she raised her arms, the shirt would bare that round ass of hers. The breeze from the windows blew her long black hair from her shoulders and revealed that there was no collar obstructing his view of her slender neck. He swallowed and felt something in his chest, as well as much lower, lurch painfully.

“Is she dead? Because I’d really hate to find out you wasted your time in tracking her down.” Her voice was harsh.

He nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from where the hem of his shirt grazed her upper thigh. “Yes, she’s no threat to you any longer.”

Moira snorted, glancing back at him, “She was never a threat to begin with.”

“You are truly that arrogant, _mi amora_? To underestimate her like that?” He crossed the room to stand behind her, clenching his fists against the urge to grab her and shake her, make her see how terrible that old woman had been. Mi amora, _forgive me_.

“What threat? She wanted to own me, not kill me!” She turned to glare up at him, her hands on her hips.

He returned her glare. For once, he was angry enough to see past how her eyes seemed bluer when her cheeks were flushed in anger. “As does Cullen. But I don’t see you giving in to him any time soon!” Her hand flashed out to punch him, but he caught her slender wrist, “I am not in the mood to play rough.”

She twisted her wrist out of his grasp, “I’m not either.” She stood for a moment staring at him. “All right, let me try this again. Don’t put yourself in danger for me, Zevran. I am not worth it.”

Zevran felt his heart drop into his boots at the matter-of-factness that pervaded her voice. “After all this time, _mi amora_ , do you truly believe that?”

She stepped closer to him and wrapped her small fingers around the straps of his armor. “If something happened to you, what do you think I would do? What do you think would happen to me?”

He wrapped his hands around hers, “ _Carita_ , you would still have Alistair.”

Zevran stared at her in confusion as she dropped her hands from his grasp and walked away from him, running her hands through her hair in frustration, “And he would have a shell. As would you if anything happened to him.”

“And what do you think you would leave behind of me?” She spun and Zevran wanted to take the words back. _Too much! Don’t admit too much!_

She stood still for a moment, her blue eyes wide. The room was beginning to lighten around them. “I don’t know, Zevran. You’ve never told me.” Her voice sounded pained. 

“I killed her,” Zevran told her, not breaking her gaze. He was going to remind her of what, exactly, she claimed to love. He wasn't sure if he was talking about the old woman or Rinna.

“I know. I knew the minute I woke up and you weren’t there.” It took all of Zevran’s training not to squirm under those frank blue eyes. She stepped closer and tilted her head to keep her eyes locked with his and continued, “Alistair nearly tied me to a chair to keep me from tracking you down.”

He frowned at her, “No condemnation? No shouting? You just woke up and missed me?” She was too calm. Was it the false calm she usually got just before a fight? She was walled off, impossible to read. Almost as if she was hiding from him. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, “Zev, you’re awfully dense some times.” She dropped her hands to her sides and looked back up at him. “Am I happy you killed the old bitch? No. Am I going to condemn you for it? No. If you felt the threat merited your actions, then I trust your judgment, even if I don’t agree with it. What have I ever done to make you think I was some sort of tyrant?”

“Now you’re being dense! At every turn you have tried to convince me that assassination wasn’t an acceptable solution to any problem! And now you’re suddenly all right with it?” Finally, he found his anger. Anger at her reasonableness when he needed her to yell at him. Anger at her calm when by all accounts she should be raging. Anger at the fact that all he really wanted to do at this moment was wrap himself around her and hold on for dear life. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer. Her hands flew up to press against his dragonscale armored chest, preventing him from crushing her against him.

“Do you want me angry? Is that it? You think I should, what, punish you with my rage? Is that what you want, Zevran?” The heels of her hands pushed ineffectually against his chest. Without her magic augmenting her muscles, however, he was the stronger.

He held on to her and tilted his head down to keep her eyes locked with his. “I want you to react!”

“And I want you to tell me how you feel for once!” Her eyes blazed in her own anger, and her small hands tightened into fists.

“You want me to tell you? Words are meaningless, _mi amora_. If you cannot divine by my actions how I feel, then there is no hope for us and I should leave.” He released her and moved to take off the very expensive collar.

Her small fists hit him once in the chest and she spun away from him and walked quickly to the window. She leaned on her hands on the sill, the gauzy curtains blowing about her, the breeze threading through her raven hair and making his shirt she’d put on dance against the pale skin of her upper thighs. “That’s your answer to everything, is it? Things become difficult between us, you leave. My friendship, my love, mean that little to you? I thought when you went to protect me from that rotten old woman, that you were doing it because you loved me. Apparently, I was wrong.”

Before he could stop himself, he crossed to her in three long strides and spun her to face him. Without preamble, he cupped her face in his hands and pushed her against the column between the windows and pressed his lips against hers. Her arms wrapped around him, at first to keep her balance, and then just to pull him closer as he deepened the kiss, pushing past her lips and teeth to stroke her tongue with his.

Breathlessly, he pulled away after a minute to stare down at her. Her eyes fluttered open and met his, anger blazing through them. He shivered as the tell-tale electrical tingle that she’d called on her magic danced along his skin. In that moment of inattention, she spun him around and he was pinned against the column. She wrapped her tiny fingers in the straps of his armor and yanked his mouth back to hers. One hand snaked up in his hair and tightened causing him to growl against her lips. She forced her way into his mouth, her tongue tangling with his. She gave a little hop and without breaking their kiss, landed with her legs wrapped around his hips. Automatically, he braced her against him with his hands on her ass. He groaned and felt his breeches become very uncomfortable when he discovered she wasn’t wearing underwear. He felt her smile against his lips when he made that discovery

“Before I’m through with you, you’ll beg me to let you stay with me forever,” She growled.

“I already want to stay with you forever, _mi amora_. But I am not a good man.”

“If either of those statements were true, why do you keep telling me you should leave?” She kissed him forcefully, her lips trembling against his. She pulled her mouth away from his and met his eyes, glaring. He could almost read her thoughts in that look. She wouldn’t condemn him for his actions in her defense because she was afraid if she did, at this point, he would leave her.

She lowered herself down off his hips and stood in front of him, waiting for him to answer. “Because I am an assassin, _mi amora_ , and not an honorable man.”

“Bullshit.”

His eyebrows shot up into his hairline at that. “I beg your pardon?” To emphasize his point, he pulled her back against him with one arm and used his other hand in her hair to yank her head backward, baring her neck to his mouth. She moaned and arched against him. He trailed his lips down her bare neck and over her clavicle, the unlaced V of his shirt falling over her shoulders. She jerked away from him, forcing him to release her hair or yank it out by the roots. She pushed him against the column and unbuckled his baldric, slapping his hands away as he tried to help. He put his hands on her hips instead, sliding up under the shirt, against her bare skin; he could feel her shiver at his touch. She gently slid the weapons to the floor and began to work on the laces that tied his dragonscale armor to his chest. 

She tugged at a strap, “You are a coward. You are afraid of facing what you feel.” She pulled his mouth back down to hers, kissing him angrily before going back to working on the laces.

She was concentrating so hard on undressing him and the stinging accusation of cowardice made him want to shatter that resolve. Keeping one hand on her hip, he slid his other hand around to her front and down over the mound of dark hair between her legs. She gasped and bit her lip, but didn’t quit her mission to get his armor off him. He slipped his fingers in between her folds seeking that spot that would definitely make her knees weaken. She yanked roughly on the last buckle and pulled until the main part of his armor was off. He was left in his boots, breeches and bracers and a soft linen shirt, twin to the one she’d purloined in his absence, and that bloody golden collar. He could feel a tremble in her slender fingers as she began working on unfastening his bracers. He twisted his fingers, making her gasp again and cling to him before she nearly lost her balance and fell into him. She regained her feet, but moved close enough that he could bend to her neck again and his finger could slide further up into her heat. 

Her hands brushed against his growing erection causing his own gasp against her neck as she finally got the bracer unfastened and let it drop to the floor. She turned her hand and rubbed against him on purpose then moved to unfasten the belt holding his breeches on. He moaned against her neck as she succeeded and freed him. But instead of putting her hands on him as he wanted her to, she reached up and started to work on the other bracer. He bit her neck in retaliation and she sagged against him with a small moan. “You’re ignoring something,” he told her, shifting the hand between her legs.

He felt her moan against his neck, “And what will you do if I keep ignoring it?” 

“I promise to think of a suitably dire punishment,” he growled as she threw the piece of armor behind her and didn’t touch him except to grasp his hair and pull him away from her neck. 

Meeting his eyes, she glared at him. “You don’t have the stones.” She stepped away from him, her blue eyes glaring a challenge. With a growl he pulled her back into his arms. He’d never been so angry with her before. Not even during all the times she’d risked her life for him. The day was beginning to get warm and her skin was beginning to glisten with sweat. He could feel his own shirt sticking to him and he yanked it off. Suddenly, they were both wrestling for dominance. Augmenting her strength with her magic, she flung him into the wall and kissed him viciously, teeth biting. He tripped her and sprawled on the floor on top of her, moving his mouth to tongue her erect nipple the V of his shirt had fallen open to bare. She twisted until she was on top and stroked him through his pants until his head spun and he pulled his mouth away from her breast long enough to breathe. She then leaped to her feet. She headed for the bed, but Zevran anticipated her and caught her around the waist to yank her back into his arms, she twisted her head around and captured his mouth with hers. She slid her feet in between his and rubbed her bare ass against his straining erection. Then her feet tangled with his and their momentum sent him crashing into the heavy armoir behind them, the sound of wood cracking under the impact, and the pain in his back was ignored as her tongue slid in between his lips and she rubbed against him. 

He slid his hand up under the thin shirt and cupped one breast. The other snaked down to hold her hips in place, threading through her thatch of dark curls to her damp folds. But before he could slide his fingers into place, she tore herself away from him, this time heading for the table. “Well?” she challenged. 

He stood looking at her for a moment, considering her challenge, panting through parted lips, fairly throbbing for her. “I could make you do a great many things, my Moira.” 

She pushed her hair out of her face. “Doubt it.” She let her eyes travel down his body and then back up, as he slowly approached. 

Smiling, he stopped in front of her. “It seems you are still wearing too many clothes. Another thing I shall have to punish.”

Her delicate features hardened and somehow, she moved quickly and shoved him to the floor, throwing herself on top of him. The telltale tingle against his skin let him know how she’d overpowered him. She straddled his hips and pinned his hands above his head. “I think you’re the one that needs to be punished, Zevran.” Using one hand, she pulled his pants down, and pulled his shirt over her head, the only thing she was apparently wearing, and as always, he found himself distracted by all her pale skin and the dark buds of her nipples. He attempted to lean up to capture one with his mouth but found he couldn’t move.

“Are you using magic to hold me in place?” For her answer, she positioned herself over his hips so that he was pressed between her legs and she shifted so that his tip was rubbing against her bud. She ground against him, her eyes closing in pleasure. He moaned in spite of himself and tried to arch against her again. He found he could squirm, but not move any further. The restraint only intensified his need. She pulled her hands away from his and sat up, putting her full weight on him, twisting her hips over him to tease him. “My dear Moira, I had no idea…”

She leaned down to lick her tongue across his lips, “And now you do. Magic has a lot of uses, my love.” She smiled and his tongue darted out to brush her lips. She caught it in her mouth and bit down, gently. It made his hips buck against her, but not much. Her spell held firm. “You are the one who needs punishing.” She shifted and her small hands positioned him to allow her to lower herself onto him. He inhaled sharply and tried to arch against her but couldn’t move. She was tight and a little dry to the point where it hurt just a bit as she forced herself down him. But once she had him completely sheathed, he really didn’t want her to move; especially when she tightened her muscles around him. He shuddered and tried to arch his hips up again, but the spell was still holding him tight in its invisible bonds.

Then her words sank in and he stared at her. She raised herself off him, the warm air cooler than her interior. She hovered over him, his tip just barely inside her. He could feel her legs tremble at keeping herself up, but she didn’t lower herself right away. She leaned down to him, keeping his eyes locked with hers, her hair falling forward to tickle his chest. “Like I said, before I’m through with you, you’ll beg me to let you stay with me forever.” She lowered herself onto him again. She was wetter this time, but still so tight she had to push herself with a little bit of effort. He shivered. She repeated her movement and every last drop of blood in his body fled south.

“And I told you,” he gasped, straining against his magical bonds, “I already want to stay with you forever, _mi amora_.” 

At his words, she pulled up quickly, leaving only his tip just inside her, and leaned back down to him again. “Then stop telling me you should leave.” Zevran had never seen her so angry, or so cruel. Had he truly hurt her so much? He knew she was terrified of being alone, of being unloved and unlovable, but he never thought that he would enter into that fear for her. He thought Alistair was the one she truly loved. Had she been telling the truth to him and to herself all along that she did love both of them, equally? She bit his lower lip and pulled her mouth away from his then shoved herself back onto him. He stared at her, his heart breaking at the pain in her eyes. She ground against him, sitting back farther until he was deeper inside her than he’d yet been and she moved against him, roughly. 

He gasped as she pulled him out of his thoughts by rising up again. The constant teasing was increasing his ache for her. But still, she continued. “Please, Moira, release me.”

She twisted her hips around, moving herself against his tip, “Why should I? I’m not sure you’ve suffered enough.” He bucked against his magical restraints at her movement.

“Maker’s breath, woman! Are you attempting to drive me insane with want of you?”

She smiled mirthlessly, “Is it working?” She sheathed him inside her again and his breath hissed out in relief. He felt the magical restraints fade and pushed himself up to a sitting position, wrapping his arms around her, wanting to feel her entire body against him. He felt her small fingers reach up and unclasp his collar and throw it somewhere. She leaned down and pressed her mouth to the hollow of his throat, letting her tongue lick him slightly through her lips. He gasped and trust upward again.

“Of course it is.” She wrapped her legs around his hips, shoving herself tighter against him, pushing him even farther up inside her. He arched his back, straining against her, need driving him. He buried his face in her hair. “I am never letting you go, _mi amora_.” She leaned back, exposing her breasts to him. He obliged her by running his tongue repeatedly across the stiffened peaks, teasing them higher, and she entangled her fingers in his hair as she moaned his name. He pulled her back up to capture her mouth with his as he felt her tighten around him with her release coming close. He met her eyes as he felt his own climax arrive, their eyes locked, hazel to blue, as they trembled against each other silently. She clung to him and buried her face against his neck, shuddering against him in aftershocks. But instead of climbing off him as she usually did, she wrapped her legs around his waist tighter, keeping him sheathed inside her.

He held her and stroked her hair, his own muscles trembling, some from exhaustion, some from her warmth continuing to surround him. “You are right. I am a coward. Why shouldn’t I be afraid of how you make me feel when I belong to you more thoroughly than I ever did to the Crows?” The fact that she had challenged him and won so subtly was part of the reason he wanted to tell her right now, that from this point forward, she had everything he was. It was one of the many reasons he loved her, that subtlety. He ached with how complete he felt in this moment. She blinked as the sun apparently came up over the rooftops and the light came in through the window, bathing her pale skin in its warmth. He buried his face in her hair just holding on to her. “I am never letting you go, _mi amora_.” 

He felt tears on his neck and held her tighter as she whispered, “Good, I was afraid I was the only one holding on here.”

“With both hands and all ten fingers.” Cupping her now-sunlit face in both hands, he whispered to her, “I told you once before: I am your man, without reservation. This I swear.” She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his neck. He held her tightly and stroked her hair. He wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little more NSFW

Moira lay exhausted, her head on Zevran’s bare chest. The lack of sleep and their reunion had left her feeling drained. The growing early morning heat from the summer day and Zevran‘s long fingers stroking through her hair only made her want to melt into the bed, despite fighting the feeling. “I suppose we should go be social,” she whispered. 

“No. I am not moving and neither are you. We have plenty of other people to take care of our departure plans.” He wrapped his arms around her tightly to keep her in place.

She smiled and tilted her head up to look at him. His lids were at half mast and his thick lashes nearly hid his hazel eyes. If he didn’t have her in a tight grip, she’d think he was nearly asleep. “We cannot stay in bed all day, Zev.”

He groaned and twisted out from under her, pinning her beneath him. She had to giggle as he adjusted her as if she were a pillow and he lay his head on her chest. “No more talk of this ‘getting up’ nonsense.”

“Oh, suddenly you think you can tie me down?” She traced his pointed ear with her fingertip. He shivered and tried to burrow deeper into her chest but flicked his tongue out to lick her bare nipple. She moaned softly but pointed out, “Zev, not to mention that I’m really hungry.”

“I know,” came the muffled reply. “I can hear your stomach.”

“Then why can’t I get breakfast?” 

Before he could answer, Alistair opened the door carrying a tray heaping with food. Moira’s stomach growled in response to the smell. His face still buried between her breasts, Zevran replied, “Because our wonderful liege is bringing us food. And I’m certain he will agree that getting dressed or leaving this room is absolutely unnecessary for you and me. We had a difficult night.” He raised his head to look at the taller man as he sat the tray down on a table, “As a matter of fact, our dear Alistair did not get enough sleep last night, either. I believe he should come back to bed, too.”

The warrior laughed, looking at their nudity appraisingly. “Are you sure there’s enough room for me?”

Moira couldn’t see Zevran’s face as he turned his head to look at Alistair, but the wide eyed expression the younger man wore was enough to let her guess that Zev had given him his best intense stare. “There is always room for you, my dear Alistair.”

The king’s face turned flaming red and he stammered, “I, uh….”

Moira laughed, “Zev, you’re going to scare him away. Just bring the tray over here and sit with us, Alistair, please?” She pushed at Zevran until he moved over to make room for the bigger man. Grumpily, the assassin complied, though he quickly adjusted himself to remain pillowed on one breast. Alistair brought the tray over and perched on the edge of the bed to take his boots off. It had taken her forever to break him of the habit of climbing into perfectly good beds with muddy boots.

Alistair settled beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders. He arranged the tray so that it was balanced on both their laps. She grabbed a slice of ham and settled back against him. Both men began eating as well and for a moment, there were no sounds other than the two Grey Wardens and the assassin filling their stomachs. Around a biscuit, Alistair told the elf, “You need to tell Moira about who you brought back with you.”

“Ah, yes, the child.” 

“Wait, you stole a child?” Moira demanded. 

“Well, not precisely. He needed rescuing. Really, he was in the most deplorable conditions and abused beyond anything the Crows ever did to me.” He cleared his throat, “At least the Crows never left permanent scars.”

Moira turned to Alistair in horror, “He’s been abused? How bad?”

Alistair glared at the elf, “She was badly injured on her neck and down her back. She won’t say what happened, but her voice is damaged, permanently Wynne says. She’s eaten enough food in the last few hours to make you and I look normal.”

“She?” Zevran asked.

“Yeah, under all that dirt and hair, it’s a little girl.” 

“Interesting,” was Zevran’s only response.

Moira shook her head, “As soon as we’re done eating, I want to meet her.”

Zevran looked at Alistair. It was the king’s turn to clear his throat. “All right, we’ll bring her up.”

Moira looked from one man to the other, “Is there a particular reason you don’t want me to go downstairs?”

Sheepishly, Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, “Speaking for myself, it’s going to be an awfully long time on a boat till Denerim. There won’t be any time alone, at all.” Alistair moved the tray to the floor and pulled her closer, one hand tentatively cupping a breast.

Zevran rose to his knees on the bed, straddling her legs. “I feel the same, mi amora. So, if both of your men request a thing, how can you refuse us? Besides, I don’t want you to put clothes on unless it’s my shirt. I enjoy the sight of it on your lithe body.”

She rolled her eyes at both of them, “Oh, for… you can’t keep it in your pants for the hour it will take me to go downstairs and meet this child? I promise it won’t take longer than that and then you can both haul me back up here to have your way with me.”

She clenched her teeth on a shout of frustration as the two men glanced at each other. Zevran leaned down and kissed her forcefully, his tongue assaulting hers and pushing her hard against Alistair, who wrapped his arms around her and cupped both her breasts in calloused palms. When Zevran released her, he sat down at her side and pulled her against him, out of Alistair's arms, his hand imitating Alistair’s posture with his thumbs teasing her nipples. Instead of objecting, Alistair kissed her, not quite as forcefully, but hard enough to push her against Zevran’s chest. One of the warrior’s hands slid down her stomach, teasingly, and settled between her bare thighs. His fingers gently stroked her repeatedly until she arched her hips and moaned against his mouth. Moira suddenly found herself unable to breathe, every nerve ending on fire. Zevran continued to tease her breasts, twisting around her to let his tongue lave them as if he would never stop. Moira sucked in a deep breath and summoned a great deal of will power to resist. “All right, I believe you’ve both made convincing arguments,” she said, breathlessly. “But I still need to meet the girl.” They both reluctantly stopped, though Zevran caught Alistair’s fingers and licked them clean for him. She caught herself before she gave in. _Maker, what have I gotten myself into?_

Alistair bent to meet her eyes. “You have one hour. No more. Longer than that and we both reserve the right to haul you up here and tear your clothes off.”

“But, all I have left to wear are my mage robes! If you rip those, what the hell else am I supposed to wear?”

Zevran turned her head to face him and kissed the tip of her nose, “That, _mi amora_ , will be your incentive to behave. We could always make sure that all you have left to wear is one of our shirts.”

“Now that sounds like a good idea,” Alistair offered, an amused and possessive glint in his eye.

Moira shook her head at them. “Just let me up. Both of you are terrible. And you’re so mean to me,” she told them mockingly.

She caught Zevran’s grin at Alistair, “We really are horrible. We should make it up to her right now.”

“At least five or six times, I think,” Alistair told the elf. Moira threw on her clothes in record time. 

When she arrived down in the common room with Alistair and a reluctantly dressed Zevran, she was greeted with the sight of Jowan and Shale arriving, their arms full of packages. Jowan nodded a hello and Shale grumbled something under her breath as they passed Moira to go upstairs to their rooms. The elf mage turned to see the little girl sitting at the table with Cullen and Wynne drowsing due to her full stomach. 

Cullen stood up immediately and nearly at attention. “Give it a rest, Cullen,” Alistair muttered tiredly. Embarrassed, the darker-haired man sat. Wynne looked up at their arrival and Moira went to stand by her friend.

“Introduce us?” At the sound of the new voice the little girl shot to her feet so fast she nearly knocked the chair over and stood ramrod straight, her hands behind her back. Wide brown eyes stared at Moira from under a shock of brilliant red hair. The child literally trembled. Moira felt her heart break into a thousand pieces. She’s been cleaned up, that much was certain, but her clothes were still the rags in which she’d arrived. “Please, sit. It’s all right. I promise.”

Zevran crossed his arms and made a scoffing noise. “This is still the same little sneak who held me at knife point, Moira. Don’t you forget that.”

Moira caught the furtive dart of the child’s eyes in Zevran’s direction and the annoyance that briefly flickered across the girl’s face at the elf’s comment. She now knew the child was trying to manipulate her. But at least the trembling stopped. “Ah, I see. What’s your name?” 

“They called me Ash.”

“Well, Ash. How can I help you?” Moira asked, glaring at Zevran who grinned back at her.

The child pointed at the other elf. “He said you would help me. He said you would bring me where I wouldn’t be a slave.”

“Did he now. And did he say where this place was?” Alistair asked.

“Ferelden!” Ash said, proudly. Wynne hid a grin in her tankard as she took a sip.

“I’m sure something can be arranged, child. Please sit back down,” Wynne told her gently.

Moira glanced at her companions and ruefully shook her head. Not a single one of them, including her, had any idea what to do with a child. She stood thoughtfully for a moment. “All right, Wynne, please go buy Ash some new clothes. Do you mind if she bunks with you and Shale?”

Wynne looked a little uncomfortable at the prospect. The woman may have had a child in the past, but that didn’t mean she had a clue what to do with one. The former golem was bound to be worse. But there was no where else to put the girl. Putting Ash in with her would not go well with Alistair and Zevran, after all, not after their “discussion” a few minutes ago. After a moment, the elder mage nodded her assent, “I suppose that would be best, yes.”

“Thank you, Wynne,” Alistair told her. Moira blushed; she forgot she was supposed to be pretending to be a servant. She was glad Wynne and Cullen had chosen a secluded table. The king turned to Cullen, “Any word on that ship?” 

Cullen sat his tankard down and nodded, “There should be one leaving for Denerim tomorrow at noon. The captain was open to a bribe.” He jerked his chin at Moira.

Alarmed, Alistair demanded, “Excuse me?”

“He’s from Denerim. He’s willing to take half of one of the collars as payment,” Cullen lowered his voice to tell them.

“Oh, good. Good job, Cullen.” He turned to Moira, a wide smile on his full lips, “My love, your hour’s up. Let’s go.”

“No, it’s not,” she told him, startled. While she looked forward to spending the rest of the day with them, there was still so much to do. She hadn’t even found out what Jowan and Shale had bought. 

Alistair gestured toward her, “Zevran, if you please.”

The assassin grinned. He advanced on her and she stood glaring at him. But he wasn’t daunted. She heard Wynne laugh and Cullen make a disgusted noise. She held up her hands in surrender, “All right, all right. I’m going, I’m going.”

Zevran stopped in his tracks and pouted, “Well, that’s just not fun.”

~*~

Zevran lay indolently on the bed, nude in the heat of the early morning, watching Moira race around, gathering her herbs and equipment she’d had scattered around the room during their stay at this inn. Alistair sat comfortably in a chair at the small table, cleaning and sharpening his sword, also still nude. Not that they hadn’t both had their swords thoroughly polished last night. He grinned to himself at his own joke. 

“You know,” the elf mage said ascerbically as she dropped to all fours to look under the bed for some scrap of leaf or other she couldn’t seem to find, “You could get off your ass and help me look. Or at least do something useful other than continuously mentally undressing me. At least Alistair’s cleaning his weapon!” Zevran met the king’s eyes as both men grinned at her phrasing. She rolled her eyes at them and reached under the bed, straining to get something, her round rear end in the air. He seriously considered pinching it for her for a moment, but decided he didn’t want to push his luck. At best, he’d be turned into a toad. At worst, she’d kick him out of her bed for the night. 

He sat up and scooted over to stand up, “What may I help you with, _mi amora_?” 

She stood up, her black hair disheveled and a sheen of sweat across her pale skin and put her hands on her hips to survey the room, frowning. “I could have sworn on Andraste’s knickers that I had more elfroot than that,” she pointed to a small pile of dried leaves next to Alistair. 

He stood up and put his arms around her, leaning his chin against her head and rubbing his hips against hers, enjoying the silky feel of the robes against his skin. “Does that truly matter? Can’t we get more?” 

“Of course we can, but not before we leave. And we’ll probably need all we can get once we reach Denerim.” 

At the thought of the possible trouble they were sure to be walking into in Ferelden’s capitol, Zevran dropped his arms from around her and stepped back. “We can send someone to buy more,” he pointed out.

“I’ll make due. And I’ll spend the trip over teaching Jowan to Heal more effectively if I have to beat it into his thick skull.” Moira wrinkled her nose and walked back over to the table to wrap up the herbs.

With a glance at Zevran, Alistair sat his weapon aside and drew Moira to him until she stood pressed against him, his broad hands going to her hips. She turned her head to look down at him and he told her, “I should have listened to you.”

“It’s water under the bridge, Alistair,” she leaned slightly to kiss his forehead.

“But if I’d ignored Weisshaupt, we wouldn’t have to fight to put me back on a throne I didn’t want in the first place. I should have listened to my Chancellor. I should have listened to the woman I love.” 

“Regrets help nothing, my Alistair,” Zevran told him. The elf stretched languidly, grinning as both blue and hazel eyes watched. “Besides, if you had not, you would not be waking up next to both of _us_ every morning.”

With mock seriousness, Alistair raised his face to Moira’s again, “As I said, I should have listened…” Zevran growled but before he could respond, he found himself pulled against Moira one of her hands on the side of his bare thigh, one of Alistair’s resting lightly on his bare hip. He met the other man’s hazel eyes. “I’m just kidding, Zev.”

The assassin grinned, “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

~*~

Finally packed to Moira’s satisfaction, Zevran followed her and Alistair down to the common room to join the others. Ash was standing nervously to one side and immediately ran to him when he appeared to hide behind him. The girl was far cleaner this morning and someone had found her better clothes to wear, but the simple tunic and trousers still hung loosely on her thin form. The elf’s jaw clenched at the sight of the bronze collar around the child’s neck. The weight of his own collar and Moira’s was wearing on him, too. He would be relieved to see the Nevarran shoreline recede into the distance quickly so they could remove the hateful things.

It didn’t take long to get the small group onto the large ship. It was more trying to stay out of the busy crew’s way as they loaded and unloaded cargo that was the real challenge. Ash attached herself to Zevran and would not stop following him around. The girl even glared at Moira when she kissed him briefly in passing as she and Alistair worked to get everyone organized and down in the smaller cargo bay they’d be staying in for the voyage. He’d been right. This was going to be awkward and crowded. But no less than their communal camp during the Blight. He grinned at the idea of sharing a tent back then with both the Wardens. He hadn’t done so, but he could imagine their companions’ reactions.

Once they were settled, the captain, “Just call me Baylee, Baylee Domen, if’n you don’ mind, yer Majesty,” banished them to the hold to get them out of the way as they cast off. 

“We have to spend a week down here?” Jowan asked, looking nervously at the wooden walls.

“I suppose it would rather walk through Orlais?” Shale demanded ascerbically.

The blood mage glared at the dwarf, “It has to be better than this!”

Wynne clicked her tongue at them, “Children. We hardly have time to walk over mountains and half of Thedas if we’re to put Alistair back on the throne.”

Zevran settled back against the bulkhead to watch them argue. Cullen sat on the stairs leading up to the deck as if guarding them. Not that there was anything to be done if the captain decided to betray them, but Zevran appreciated the caution, anyway. The bedrolls were spread out on the deck providing somewhere to sit other than the stained wood. Ash settled herself next to him and he met Alistair’s eyes. His friend was laughing at him, hazel eyes crinkled in amusement. Zevran glared at him which just made the king’s grin widen. When Moira, with Perrin at her heels, climbed down the stairs after meeting with the captain, Zevran stood up, Alistair stopped laughing at him, and Cullen rose to his feet to let her pass. A tiny, uncalloused hand tried to grasp Zevran’s fingers and he crossed his arms, trying not to be cruel to the child, but not wanting to encourage her seeming infatuation by holding her hand. Instead, she moved up next to him and copied his stance. Moira cocked an eyebrow at him and the girl before saying, “As soon as we’re out of the harbor, we’ll be free to go up on deck. Until then, the captain asks that we say below for our own safety.”

Alistair crossed the deck to throw his gear down next to Zevran. He’d all packed up his armor and was wearing just the shirt and leather trousers that usually went under the plate mail. The assassin took a moment to appreciate the other man’s assets before turning his gaze back to Moira. “Good. I think a week down here with only these four walls and each other to stare at will will make us all . . . cranky.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” Alistair muttered under his breath, glaring briefly in Jowan’s direction.

They were allowed back up on deck just before sunset. The captain had invited them to dine in his cabin with him in about an hour, but everyone wanted air first. They all scattered to different parts of the ship. Despite the cramped confines of the hold, however, Zevran found himself still wanting to be near Moira and Alistair. The three of them stood on the deck looking out over the water and watching the great golden red circle of the sun set in the distance. Zevran was about to lean over to her and tell her how beautiful she was at that moment with the glowing light with her black hair contrasting against her white skin and the closely fitted mage robes showing off her every curve. 

A flare of brightness in the corner of his eye caused him to throw a startled Moira to the deck and try to put out the sudden fire in her hair. Frantically, he beat at the flames with his bare hands until Moira grabbed them and said, “Just wait.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. When she opened her eyes and exhaled, the fire was gone from her hair. He sat up in relief. She smiled up at him, “You can get off me now and help me up.”

He grinned and did as she asked. He decided against making a joke, there was still the matter of figuring out how she’d gotten lit on fire in the first place. Yes, she was a mage, but they did not spontaneously combust. He didn’t think.

The small woman looked around, her hair still smouldering and frowned as Alistair crossed to a large pile of ropes, they both watched him reach down behind it and drag Ash up from her hiding place by grabbing her shirt. Silently, the ex-Templar brought the girl to Moira. “I think I found our fire-starter,” he told them. Zevran guessed he must have used his Chantry trained abilities to sense from where the spell had come.

Glaring at the girl, Moira told them in that voice that said she was the Warden Commander now, “Get Wynne and Jowan. We have a problem.”


	41. Chapter 41

Zevran watched, keeping an eye on the crew of the boat to make sure they didn’t interfere, as Moira dealt with the girl. Jowan and Wynne hadn’t even needed his summons, they’d already been headed for Moira at a run, Cullen and Shale behind them. The elf mage had the sullen child firmly by the upper arm and was glaring down at her, her pretty features twisted in anger and her blue eyes flashing. He felt the corners of his mouth tug upward in a grin of appreciation then glanced at Alistair out of the corner of his eye and saw a similar expression on the other man’s handsome face. He quickly turned his attention back to Moira to find she’d already been speaking with the other two mages. 

“I don’t care, Jowan. She set my hair on fire.” 

“But she’s only a child!” the blood mage whined.

Moira looked at him steadily, “So was Connor.” The blood mage winced. “Wynne? What do you think?”

Wynne shrugged, “I can only suggest teaching her now. The sooner she learns of the dangers in store for her in the Fade, the better. That is where Connor’s education went wrong.” She gave Jowan a pointed look.

Zevran followed Moira’s gaze to the where the girl still stood firmly in Alistair’s grasp. He wondered if the ex-Templar was doing something to keep the girl from using her magic. If he knew Alistair, he was. Moira looked at the older mage, “All right, Wynne, would you mind starting her off? Cullen, stay with them.” The big man nodded sternly and glared at the child.

“Just don’t forget she’s a child, Cullen,” Alistair pointed out.

“You never served in the tower, my lord. I know how to deal with newfound mages.” The former Templars scowled at each other.

Moira pinched her nose, “Cullen, she’s a little girl before she’s a mage. Ash, please go with Wynne, do as she says.”

Wide brown eyes stared around the group until they found Zevran. He sighed internally. This little girl’s adulation of him needed to be nipped in the bud immediately. But he could think of no kind way to do it at the moment, the old him, the one that the Crows had trained to be a cold blooded killer thought he should be as harsh as possible, warning the child of the dangers of the world. But Ash didn’t need that. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime, those big brown eyes of hers had seen too much in such a short time, perhaps even more than he had at her age. He nodded for her to do as Moira said. The brown eyes fell in resignation and the narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. She allowed Wynne to lead her away, Jowan and Cullen following. Without looking at him, her eyes following the child, “You’ve got an admirer, Zev.”

“The child has good taste,” Zevran drawled. Catching her scowl he continued, “I do not know how to dissuade her of her infatuation.”

Alistair crossed his arms and followed their gaze, “You can’t. All you can do is wait it out. She’ll grow out of it eventually.”

Moira arched a raven brow at her other lover, “Have a great deal of experience with unrequited crushes, my love?”

Zevran grinned as the other man blushed but was surprised, though, when he rejoined with, “The only one that matters didn’t go unrequited.” Zevran watched as their eyes met again and locked as if nothing else existed for either of them. He was about to take a step back and away, feeling left out, when both of them reached out a hand to grab his and Moira pulled him to her side, her small arm sliding around his waist, and Alistair’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. 

As Moira leaned her head against him, another woman’s voice interrupted, “Is this how it’s going to be the entire trip to Denerim? Would it, I mean, they, like a room of their own on this ancestor-forsaken ship?” Shale demanded acerbically. 

Moira laughed, and grasped Alistair’s other hand, “I thought you said we were on our honeymoon?”

“Any more honeymooning and I may throw up,” the ex-Golem retorted.

Looking around Moira at the dwarf, Zevran bowed slightly, “I am so sorry, my dear, if we’ve offended. Perhaps the payment of a bright shiny rock would assuage your jealousy?”

Alistair’s laugh and Moira’s half-amused and half-offended, “Zevran!” greeted his remark, but he met the small brunette’s eyes and waited, a half smile on his lips. 

When the warrior began laughing, he grinned. “All right, painted elf. Enjoy your honeymoon. I’ll be as far away as I can get on this boat before you spoil my appetite.” When the dwarva left, Moira straightened up and stopped leaning on Zevran. 

“We need to talk. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

Zevran turned so that he could see her without twisting his neck around, “What about, _mi amora_?” Though he could guess the answer.

“Something doesn’t add up. The lyrium was mostly going to the Grey Wardens to fuel Jowan’s spell, now that I know where it’s going, I’d rather not cut off that supply stream. Someone besides the Chantry needs to have a stockpile. And both the Grey Wardens and someone in Denerim hired the Crows for us, though the Grey Wardens only wanted us delayed, not dead.” She began to pace in the narrow space they had claimed on the middeck. “Anora’s locked up in Fort Drakon, supposedly. And Eamon’s fine being an occasional regent, or so he’s said. Who’s really behind this? And did they set it up so the Wardens would call for you when they did?”

“Isolde?” Alistair offered, chuckling.

Zevran and Moira burst out laughing. “If it’s Isolde, we’re all in trouble,” she said between gasps for air. “She’d have to be a bloody genius to pull all this off.” She glared at Alistair. “That’s just too frightening a thought. Thank you so much.”

The taller man chuckled, “I doubt it’s her. Eamon didn’t marry her for her mind, after all.” He sighed, “Honestly, my money’s on Anora. Somehow, she’s gotten an ally outside the Fort and they’re helping her.”

“Anora is a very clever woman, _mi amora._ I would not put it past her. I should have put an end to her when I had the chance.” Zevran crossed his arms over his chest.

Alistair held his hands up, “No one is putting an end to anyone until we know what’s going on.”

“Relax, my friend. I will not do anything rash unless it’s to protect the two of you.” Zevran looked up at the taller man.

Alistair grinned, “Both of us, huhn?”

The assassin scowled, “Do not start.”

“All right. All right. Seriously, Moira, what are you planning?” 

The small woman’s brow knotted, “Me? It’s your throne. What are you planning?” 

Alistair looked startled she would even ask for a moment, then let out a breath, “Well, I suppose we should get to Denerim and scout the city. Find out what’s going on.”

Moira leaned back on one leg and crossed her arms, Zevran didn’t even bother keeping his eyes on her face. She needed to not wear that mage robe. There had to be something else she could wear or he’d never concentrate on anything she said again. The thought of running his tongue along the pale slopes of those breasts made his heart speed up. She was looking at him pointedly. he shook his head to clear it. He’d apparently let himself get distracted again. “What was that, _mi amora_?” 

Moira shook her head at him, knowing where his eyes and thoughts had wandered to. “How do you feel about hiding out in the Alienage? Bann Shianni may be able to help us.” The cabin boy approached to inform them dinner was ready before Zevran could reply.

He hated Denerim’s alienage. He’d looked at Moira on their last visit and thanked the Maker she hadn’t had to grow up there. It would have made her an entirely different person. One he may not have adored quite so much. He caught up with her as she walked ahead of them to the captain’s cabin. He palmed her rear end gently and leaned to kiss the delicate tip of her pointed ear where it emerged from her hair. Startled, she looked up at him and he smiled, leaning close to her ear again said, “Either there or The Pearl.” He was amused to see her blush.

The captain’s dinner was uneventful. Zevran sat on one side of Moira and Alistair the other. He knew his free hand was on her leg and was fairly certain, Alistair’s was, too. He did occasionally wonder if they were too intrusive to her. She hadn’t really had time to herself since Weisshaupt, but she never complained. 

The week passed in much the same way. Lessons for Ash every morning and every afternoon, with either Cullen or Alistair standing by in case something got out of hand. Zevran trimmed the singed patch in Moira’s hair for her until it wasn’t even noticeable. Shale had refused right out and Wynne said she had no time to play hairdresser if she was to teach Ash. Alistair had taken one look at the tiny sewing scissors Wynne had handed him for the job, laughed and handed them to Zevran. They’d been too small for the king’s hands. Zevran didn’t mind, it was an excuse for them to sit near the prow of the boat, her body braced between his legs, and a reason to run his fingers through her thick hair for an hour or so while the sun shone down and a soft breeze blew across the deck. 

Moira turned her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye, “You just wanted me all to yourself.”

His deft fingers trailed through the curls, looking for any more singed spots. “Of course. But there is hardly any privacy to be had on this boat. It’s worse than the camp during the Blight.” He brushed her hair out of the way and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder where her robes left a small bare spot. She shivered.

“You’re just trying to talk me into staying at The Pearl instead of the Alienage.”

“It would be far more comfortable,” he replied, kissing the same spot, causing her to shiver again. “Very large beds.”

She leaned back against him before he could kiss her shoulder again and he wrapped his arms around her. She gazed aft over the boat, watching Cullen and Alistair spar, a sight Zevran would usually equally appreciate since both men had removed their shirts in the summer heat, were it not for the slender form in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, her slender fingers entwining with his across her stomach. He leaned his head against hers, contentedly.

She turned and kissed him softly, “I’ll think about it.”

~*~

Moira stood on the pier at the Denerim docks and tried not to breathe deeply, waiting for their horses to be unloaded. It had nothing to do with the tight stays in her mage robes and everything to do with the stench of dead fish, human waste, and rotting food. Alistair came up behind her and put his mailed hand on the small of her back. “Home smelly home.” 

“You have GOT to get this area cleaned up,” she told him, covering her nose.

He glanced down at her, amused, “Just for you, my love, I’ll add it to my to-do list. Right after taking back the throne, but sometime before dinner.”

Moira smirked up at him, “Glad you have your priorities straight. So, The Pearl or the Alienage?”

Alistair glanced back at Zevran who was trying to convince Ash to stay with Wynne. “Everyone but you and Zevran would stick out like a sore thumb in the Alienage, my love. I’m going to have to agree with him and pick the Pearl. Our merchant cover should still hold there as long as no one recognizes you or me.”

Zevran walked over in time to catch the last part of Alistair’s comment. “Of course, the two of you could just stay confined to the room. Less risk of recognition that way. I could even tie you both up.” He grinned. 

Moira shook her head, “You’re incorrigible. All right, you’ve convinced me. We’ll head for The Pearl.” 

Alistair cleared his throat, “I do have another suggestion.” Moira looked at him expectantly. “We could just go home. I am after all,” he glanced around, “what I am. It would make their intentions clear on how they receive us.”

Zevran sighed, “Oghren is not here to help me break you out of Fort Drakon again, my friend.” Perrin whined and headbutted Moira’s hand to show his lack of approval.

Moira squinted up at her king, “Is that really the best course of action, Alistair?”

He shrugged, “Maybe not. But I’m tired of sneaking around. All of you go to The Pearl. I’ll just go home. See what’s going on. I can send word if it’s all clear. If you don’t hear from me in a few hours, come find me in Fort Drakon.”

“You’re not going alone,” Moira told him, crossing her arms.

“I’m not bringing you,” he glanced at Zevran, “either of you, with me.”

“It would probably go better if they thought they had both of us,” Moira pointed out.

“This is an incredibly bad idea.” Zevran scowled from one to the other. “You certainly won’t be going without me.”

“I thought it was a bad idea?” Alistair’s voice held laughter.

“All the more reason you’ll need someone of my talents along.”

Moira looked away over the harbor, squinting into the sunset. “What if we need your particular talents to get out of Fort Drakon again? Unless you’d like me to seduce some random guard?”

Alistair looked nauseated, “Please don’t.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Zevran visibly bite back a comment. That was a first. Previously he wouldn’t have hesitated to make fun of Alistair. “It’s far better to avoid capture entirely, is it not?” He asked instead.

Alistair scowled at him. “It is. But I doubt that’s what’s going to happen. They probably already know we’ve landed. Might as well go up to the front door and knock politely.”

Zevran looked around, his hazel eyes narrowed. “You may be correct. I wonder why they have not yet apprehended us?”

Moira shrugged, “Terminal stupidity? Or maybe they’re waiting to see what we do?”

Alistair shouldered his pack, “I’m going to pick option A. Let’s get everyone else settled. And then go home.”


	42. Chapter 42

Shale, of course, protested being left behind at The Pearl. “I see no reason why I can’t help you get your throne a second time,” she said, glaring up at Alistair. The small group stood in the larger of the two rooms they’d rented. Wynne sat primly on one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner, Ash sitting at her feet. Through the child’s lessons, some of her affections seemed to have been transferred away from Zevran to the older mage. Jowan and Cullen stood at opposite ends of the room, glaring at one another when they thought no one was looking. She hoped they stopped whatever argument they were having, soon. The constant scowls were getting annoying. 

“And you will. I doubt this will go smoothly. The three of us will go first. If Zevran or Moira don’t come back personally by tomorrow morning, assume we’re reluctant guests of whomever decided he wanted my throne.” Alistair grinned and glanced at Moira, “The annoying thing is, if they’d just asked nicely, I might have given it to them.”

Moira laughed. “I highly doubt that, my love.” 

Alistair shook his head, “Should have just run off with you to rebuild the Gray Wardens.”

Moira grinned, “What? And miss all this luxury?” Turning to Shale, Moira continued, “My friend, we will need your help to break out, if this goes poorly. I’m leaving Perrin here with you. They’d kill him out of hand if we’re captured, I’m afraid.” She sighed, “I do hope that they think you were all just fellow passengers.” Moira looked down at her mabari, “Old friend, I need you to stay with Shale and do as she says.” The dog let out a mournful bark and a whine. “I’m serious, Perrin. You may be needed to break us out of prison.” Perrin whined again and laid down on the wooden floor, his head on his paws and his large brown eyes looking up at his mistress who crouched to hug him. “They’ll need your help, boy. Keep them safe.” She looked at Shale who nodded, knowing what Moira actually meant. 

The former Golem crossed her arms and planted her feet. “Fine. But sunset. Not tomorrow morning. I don’t hear from you three by sunset, we’re coming after you.”

“I believe I’ll be staying here with Ash, however,” Wynne stated, giving the urchin a stern look as she started to speak, probably to insist she be allowed to help. “I don’t believe I’m up to a jail break and I’d only get in the way. I’ll make sure Jowan knows the healing spells he’ll need.” The blood mage nodded, but looked nervously at Moira.

“Are you sure about this? This is rather like putting all our eggs in one basket,” he pointed out to Moira.

Alistair chuckled, “Yes, but we’re very hard-boiled eggs.” Looking at Zevran and Moira, he said, “Let’s get going.”

They managed to arrive at the palace gates without anyone accosting them. They were even allowed to pass the guard station without issue, though they were looked at suspiciously for some reason. Moira didn’t recognize the guard on duty, but then, she and Alistair had only been in power for less than a year and they’d been gone for roughly six months. New people were bound to have gotten hired since. The only question was, to whom were the new guards loyal?

She and Zevran flanked Alistair as he strode forward into the large foyer of the palace. It had been designed to be highly defensible in case of breach, with multiple arrow slits around the middle of the walls and narrow passages into the rest of the castle. Moira halted at sudden feel of Alistair’s mailed fist gripping her forearm. Her fellow Warden had seen them before she had. The loopholes above them along the rear wall had suddenly bristled with arrows. She felt Zevran put his back to them and she and Alistair turned so that the three of them were back to back, facing the guards who had silently crept up on them to surround them. 

A tall, icy-blonde woman in heavy emerald green robes embroidered with golden Mabari Rampants, her hair piled on top of her head to mimic a crown, approached them through the guards who parted for her without her saying a word. She stood looking at the three of them, Alistair in his battered dragon plate, Zevran in his equally beat-up drakeskin and Moira in her scant mage robes and shook her head, “The Prodigal King returns, I see.”

Warily eyeing the unsheathed swords and the arrows pointed at them, Alistair replied, “Sister, good to see you. Eamon treating you well?”

She smiled coldly, “Why don’t you ask him when you see him?” She placed her hands behind her back which seemed to be a signal. The guards advanced warily.

“Alistair? This is your show.” She could hear the strain in her own voice as she held a fireball ready.

He sighed, “Surrender. I don’t think they’re acting of their own free will. Let’s not kill my subjects if we don’t have to.”

“You have a rotten sense of honor, my friend,” Zevran told him.

~*~

Cullen paced the small room they’d congregated in at The Pearl. It was 6 strides long. He’d traversed the room a dozen times. Shale glared at him each time he passed her. He must have been on his fifteenth circuit when she stood up and planted herself in front of him, her hands on her hips and glaring up at him. He’d never felt so gigantic in his life. “Sit down!” She ordered him.

“Why? All we can do is hide and wait!” 

“Because it -- you’re -- going to drive me insane. Sit down,” she told him, her pretty face scowling up at him. 

The human man turned to the other inhabitants of the room, “Wynne, Jowan, surely you don’t mean to just sit around waiting?”

Jowan stepped away from the wall where he’d been leaning, his eyes locked on something outside the narrow window. He straightened his robes. “I think we’ll have enough problems soon enough, Cullen, without chasing Moira down. It seems we’ve been sent for.” Cullen swore under his breath and lunged for the window. He looked down at the street below. A column of city guardsmen in their telltale red armor stood outside. 

Shale wormed her way between him and the window and from under him, she called to Wynne, “It’s Sergeant Kylon.” Cullen was astonished to hear the relief in Shale’s voice and a sigh of the same come from Wynne. He turned to look incredulously at the older mage who was placidly braiding Ash’s hair into tiny rows. 

“Why is that a relief?” He demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.

She tied off the first braid and started on another one. “Because, he is a friend of the Grey Wardens.”

“But, Moira and Alistair aren’t here!”

Blue eyes looked steadily into brown, “Cullen, you’re a bit thick sometimes.”

Jowan slapped him on his armored shoulder. “She means us, you dolt.”

The ex-Templar’s eyes widened, “But we’re barely initiates!”

Shale snorted, “And you think Moira and Alistair were any more experienced during the Blight? He’ll recognize Wynne. Let her do the talking and keep your mouth shut till someone asks you a direct question. If it comes to a fight, don’t kill him. He’s only following orders.”

They waited, tensely for the knock on the door they knew would come. Of course, as always when waiting in that fashion, when the knock came, they all jumped. Wynne silenced them with a stern look and called out, “Come in!”

Diffidently, the sergeant stepped into the room, and looked around until he spotted Wynne’s familiar face. “Madam, it’s good to see you.”

“And you, sergeant. How can we help you today?”

He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded once. “I came to see if I could find the King’s and his Chancellor’s friends, you see. They’re supposed to be under arrest. Because the King and the Chancellor got locked up in Fort Drakon, you know. But I can’t seem to find them. Do you know where they are, Madam?”

Wynne regarded Kylon steadily. Finally she rose and said, “No, Sergeant. I’m afraid I can’t help you, after all.”

“Bann Shianni’s supposed to be turning over the Alienage looking for them, too. But you know those elves, they never do what they’re told.” He nodded again and turned on his heel. His voice lower, he looked at Wynne. “I hope you can get them out.”

“We will, Sergeant,” she reassured him. The dark haired man let himself out. 

Cullen glanced out the window and saw him exit the inn to march his soldiers to the next inn. “What the hell was that about?” He demanded. 

“We’re to go hide in the Alienage as soon as we can. Probably at full dark. Shianni will hide us until we can break into Fort Drakon.” Shale glared at Cullen. “Please try to keep up.”

~*~

Moira stared at the ceiling. Everything hurt. A low, dull ache. She was also starving, with the backbone-gnawing hunger that only a Warden could feel. She could smell the tray of food they’d shoved unceremoniously under the door for her, but she couldn’t get her limbs to agree to move in a coordinated direction. She had no idea why she’d been tortured. She had no information to give Anora that the bitch didn’t already have. Was it because of Loghain? Was this the daughter’s revenge for the death of the father? 

“Moira!” Zevran? Why was Zevran hissing at her? “Moira!” The hissing stopped for a moment. Then started up again, “Why isn’t she moving?” 

Alistair’s voice sounded odd. “There’s a glyph. It’s a paralysis glyph. She’s out of range for me to dispell it.”

The air was chilly and she could feel a cool, swirling draft over parts of her that were normally covered indicating she’d been dumped in here in only her small clothes. Again. “It’s being renewed by a mage over there, I think.” Alistair’s voice. “There might be a small window where she can move out of its range if he lets it go long enough.”

“So, then we need a distraction.” Zevran, why can’t either of you help me? She wanted to shout. 

“That’s a little difficult to arrange when we’re in separate cells, Zev.” 

In prison. That’s right. Some of the memories before her torture came back, slowly. Anora had her guards round them up and strip them of their weapons and armor, leaving them in their small clothes yet again. She’d then ordered them separated and Moira’s magic ripped from her by a Templar, repeatedly. After that, it all became a haze of pain. She wasn’t sure what spells had been used on her, but she was pretty sure some of them she wouldn’t have used on a darkspawn. 

Alistair was right, Zevran was right. Only she could get herself out of this. She’d have to wait for the glyphs to run down and in that brief moment before the mage renewed them, she’d have to move out of his range and get her own spell off. The only spell guaranteed to do the kind of damage she needed was Storm of The Century. It was intricate and required three spells to go off perfectly in a certain order. It would be a race against time for her versus the other mage’s ability to cast the set of glyphs below her. 

Moira recognized what she was feeling now. It was the same set of glyphs that had been placed on her when the Crows had captured her. A paralysis glyph over a pain glyph and a power draining glyph is the only thing that could explain what she was feeling right now. Alistair must have been at too poor an angle to see her imprisonment clearly to see the other glyphs. She wouldn’t be surprised to find that he was chained to a wall as far away from her as possible to keep him from being able to nullify the spells. She wondered if Zevran was chained similarly.

She waited, keeping her mind from dwelling on her pain and on her inability to move anything except her eyes and to breathe and keep her heart beating. She heard Zevran and Alistair continue their whispered conversation over her, from the sounds of their voices, they were in the cells on either side of her. The Storm might be enough to blast open their doors but if they were both chained, she’d have to find the keys. She wasn’t worried about her own cell door, one good fireball and the thing would be disintegrated.

And then the moment came. The pain spell faltered first. But wasn’t renewed right away. Then the power drain glyph fell, and she felt her connection to the Fade restore itself slowly. The paralysis was the last to end and she quickly threw herself into a corner of her cell with the simple expedient of rolling as fast as she could. She hit the wall, stood up and threw everything she had into the three spells. 

The storm exploded from her fingertips, the force of the winds blowing the doors off their hinges. Screams as lightning struck anything outside the cells were almost drowned by the winds howling through the stone corridors, hunting for a way to get free. The power of her spell flooded her veins and she could sense both Alistair and Zevran to either side of her. They were both injured, but not permanently so. When her reserves were renewed, she should be able to heal them. But first to make sure that mage was taken care of.

She stepped out of her cell, paying absolutely no attention to the fact that she was still in only her small clothes and that the floor was icy cold against her bare feet. She stepped over the body of an electrocuted guard and looked around for the mage. She spotted him in a far corner of the chamber, pressed against the wall and trying to avoid her storm. She had just enough reserves left to hit him with a fireball. The spell exploded and threw the mage into the grasp of the indoor lightning storm she’d conjured. She watched impassively as the spells killed her fellow mage. 

Turning on her heel, she went in search of her men. Their cell doors had already been taken care of by the blast of power from the initial wave of the storm, but they were both still chained. The ice Moira had encased her emotions in started to thaw as she realized the injuries to both were worse than she thought. Her torture had only been magical. Both of theirs had been much worse. 

She figured they had tortured her to get them to talk. About what, she didn’t know. Did they harm one man to get the other to confess to something when hurting her didn’t work? Zevran had stretched his chains as far as they’d let him toward her and he crouched on the floor, blinking at her, his hazel eyes swollen and blackened. She couldn’t tell the extent of his injuries from the shallow combat link she’d forged, just that he hurt. Alistair stood chained to the back wall, no give to his shackles, his arms locked over his head. His neck was even encircled by a manacle that forced him to stand on his toes or suffocate. Zevran would have to pick the lock, assuming his fingers were functional, she doubted she had the precision to break the steel with a spell; in her growing exhaustion, she might take his head off instead. 

Quickly, she crossed to the elf’s cell and froze the chains to the point of brittleness. The assassin wordlessly twisted and was able to shatter them against the stone floor. “How badly are you injured?” she asked.

“I’m well enough. I assume you freed me so that I can pick the locks on his chains?” Zevran asked, heading for the doorway to his cell. 

She grabbed his arm, “Yes, but let me make sure you’re all right, too. At least let me heal your eyes.” It was, fortunately, a small spell and she was able to muster enough power to bring down the swelling and the bruising. He blinked at her and she let her hands fall from the sides of his face.

He kissed her, briefly and said, “Thank you, _mi amora_. Now let us rescue our Templar, yes?” 

It broke her heart to see Alistair chained again. His eyes opened and he smiled at her through split lips, “Took you long enough.” 

“There were some... complications,” she told him, smiling back. Zevran snorted and trotted over to the body of the guard Moira had stepped over earlier. She felt a brief flash of embarrassment at not even thinking of the keys. 

Within moments, Alistair was leaning on her and she gently kissed his injured mouth. He smiled slightly and rested his forehead against hers. Then, Zevran was there, supporting Alistair’s other side and they were attempting to figure out where their armor and clothes and weapons might be. They’d begun their search when they happened upon another cell, tucked away in the far corner of their particular level of the dungeon. A noise, a groan from inside made the three of them glance at each other. “That sounded familiar,” Alistair said, tightening his grip on the sword he’d gotten off the dead guard. He nodded at Zevran and the elf used the purloined keys to unlock the door. 

Moira inhaled sharply. The former Arl of Redcliffe and current Regent of Ferelden, Eamon Guerrin, the man they’d left to be regent in their absence slumped against the far wall. “Well, that explains a few things,” Zevran drawled.


	43. Chapter 43

The former Arl pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Your majesty? Please tell me I’m not hallucinating?”

Alistair stood staring down at, for lack of better terms, his uncle and one-time foster parent. “Eamon? What -- what happened?” Without being asked, Zevran set to work trying to find the key on the pilfered ring that would unlock the former Arl’s chains. Alistair swallowed around the lump in his throat. How had Anora done this?

“Anora managed to get guards sympathetic to her cause, or maybe just more open to bribery. Within a few weeks after you left, Chancellor, she made her move.” A chain clinked against the stone floor as Zevran managed to finally find the key.

Alistair caught Moira’s eye and she tightened her lips into a thin line as she held back a retort. As far as he could tell, Anora’s subversion could have taken place at any time. For one brief, shining moment, he saw this coup as a boon. He could just walk away. Take Moira and Zevran, all their friends, and just go be Grey Wardens somewhere. The prospect of sharing Moira with the elf for the rest of their short lives paled in comparison to the weight lifted off his shoulders at the idea of not being king any more.

The weight came crashing back down on his shoulders as he realized that Anora would hunt them to the ends of Thedas if she had to, just to secure her rule. As long as he lived, he was a threat to that. And Moira was an even greater one just for being the Hero of Ferelden. But he couldn’t blame their current situation on Eamon. No, the blame lay entirely with him. He should have ignored the Weisshaupt summons. His self recriminations made him miss what Moira asked Eamon. “--I told you, I don’t know which guards she subverted. She either worked too quickly or too quietly.”

Moira stood quietly for a moment, watching as Zevran helped the old man to his feet. Alistair could almost feel when her gaze sharpened and speared the former Arl. “Or you were in on it with her and she double crossed you.”

Alistair felt his stomach twist. Eamon’s eyes widened. “How... why? I helped put Alistair on the throne, Commander! Why would I take it away from him?”

Moira glanced at Alistair out of the corner of her eye. He felt her gaze like a knife wound and braced himself for what she was about to say. “Because he won’t set me aside to find some pretty, brainless farmgirl to breed a litter off of?” 

Eamon looked at her coldly, “I know he thinks he loves you, girl, but that’s just an infatuation. A human and an elf can’t possibly be happy together, or love each other. And a bastard king can’t have bastard children. Much less half breeds.” 

Alistair felt his stomach drop into his boots. He didn’t need to see Moira’s face to know the flash of murderous rage that had just crossed it. It was mirrored in Zevran’s cold expression. Alistair had only seen that look a handful of times on the assassin’s face. He usually reserved it for those who insulted or harmed Moira. Like right now. He wondered if, when he had to leave and actually find that brainless farmgirl, if the assassin would want to kill him for causing Moira pain. The chances were high. 

But right now, he needed to dispel the tension in the cell. “Wait just one minute, Eamon! The days of you arranging my life stopped when you left me at the Chantry!” Alistair put his hand on Moira’s bare, slender shoulder. Zevran stepped away roughly from the old man and walked around his back, as if to illustrate what a stupid thing the former arl had said and stood on the other side of Alistair. Eamon looked like he wanted to say something in reply. 

Moira shook her head, her filthy hair brushing Alistair’s hand and interrupted the older man. “We’ll deal with your stupidity later, Guerrin. Can you walk or are you going to be a liability?”

The old man stood up straighter, “I won’t be a problem.”

Moira’s voice was as cold as Alistair had ever heard it, “You already are a problem.”

After getting the former arl free, the three of them searched each cell -- using the pilfered keys-- to find their their clothes and weapons. Before they could find their amor and weapons, they found something much more interesting. Laying on a bed of dirty straw in the next to last cell, was the former Queen of Ferelden, looking a great deal the worse for wear; her usually immaculately braided blonde hair was a mass of knotted blonde snarls. Her pretty face was bruised and smeared with dried blood. She appeared to be unconscious or deeply asleep. "Then who--?" Alistair rocked back on his heels, dumbfounded. The three of them had learned their lesson in the Grey Warden's prison cells. "I don't sense any spells or glyphs around her. Alistair?" Moira looked up at Alistair for confirmation. He shook his head. "I don't sense anything either." Eamon peered around them into the cell. "If it wasn't her, then who was it that orchestrated all of this?" Zevran snarled under his breath. "I do not know. But there will be Crows who will be squawking for me before long." "I can't leave her like this." She picked her way across the straw and crouched beside the other woman. He closed his eyes at the calm whisper of healing magic that probably used up what little reserves Moira had left. She swayed and caught herself on the wall before he could reach her to steady her. She _would_ exhaust herself to help others. An ache filled his heart for her. When he got his throne back and the apparently false Anora was dealt with. It would be over. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

Anora's eyes fluttered open. She started to shrink back until she realized who was crouching in front of her. "You are probably the last person I should be happy to see, but Andraste preserve me, Moira, I can't tell you how glad I am it's you."

"We're rescuing you a second time, I guess," Moira said, smiling. "Can you stand?"

Anora nodded, slowly getting to her feet with Moira's help. Her dress hung off her. "Didn't I leave you an entire suite in the East Wing?" Alistair demanded.

Anora frowned at him. "Yes, Brother _dear_ , you did. But when whatever that thing is decided to impersonate me, it couldn't very well leave me there, could it? I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a distinct lack of guards on this floor. _Do_ use your brain for something more than keeping your ears apart, mmm?" She raised an eyebrow at Moira, who, he could tell, was doing her best not to laugh. "I suppose you're still the brains? Or is this one?" And she jerked her head at Zevran, who _was_ laughing. Alistair stepped heavily on the assassin's foot.

"Very funny. _Sister._ " Alistair sneered back. "Will you be able to keep up, or do you wish to stay here?" He really hoped she stayed here. Having Eamon along would be enough of a handicap.

She looked dubiously at her cell. "As much as I would prefer to leave here, it is probably safer for all of us if I stay. I cannot possibly hope to keep up with you. It would probably be wiser if Eamon stayed as well, but I do understand the desire to leave this awful place as quickly as possible."

"We'll send guards loyal to _us_ as soon as we may," Moira told her.

"I hope you find some. I don't know what that creature is that replaced me, but it warped people's loyalties with astonishing speed." 

"If I might ask, your Majesty," Zevran began, "Why did it not warp your loyalty?"

"So, you're not just a pretty face!" The blonde woman winced as a scab on her lip broke open and she dabbed at it with her dirty sleeve. "I don't know. I kept wondering that myself. Perhaps because it intended to kill me anyway. All it needed from me was permission to invade my mind. Which gave it everything it needed to copy me. I thought it was a dream, at first. It came to me looking like my father. And then tortured me."

Moira shuddered. "Demon. Must be. Andraste's pearly white ass cheeks!" She looked pointedly at Zevran. "The fucking Crows, or part of them, are screwing around with _demons_. The whole damned world has gone insane!" She stormed out of Anora's cell, muttering strings of curses that would make Oghren himself turn pink.

"Um, just wait here. We'll send for you." The pale haired woman nodded, slumping back down into the straw, plainly still exhausted and in pain. Moira probably hadn't been able to heal everything. He hurried to catch up to the elf mage, Zevran and Eamon not far behind him.

He’d begun to realize it wasn’t just Moira he’d have to leave, but all their old friends, too, including Zevran. He was even going to miss him. Especially since Zevran now had an even bigger reason to go Crow hunting than he did before. When he caught up to her, she had found the stash of their equipment and was unceremoniously dumping the armor out onto the ground. "C'mon. Things just got a lot more urgent. We don't have a lot of time." He gathered up his own armor and his blade and turned to the others. Eamon had found some guard’s armor to put on and borrowed a cheap iron sword. Moira was finishing buckling Zevran into his armor, the elf’s fingers laced over the top of his head to keep his arms out of her way. She wore her scant Robes of the Witch again, the skirt barely covering her ass as she bent slightly to get one last buckle; he wrenched his eyes back up to her hands. When she finished, she came over to help him with his armor. He did the same with his hands and tried not to think about whether this was the last time she’d ever do this. 

When she was satisfied the dragon bone armor was tight enough on him and secure, she stood on her toes and pressed her lips gently to his. Puzzled, he frowned at her when she stepped back. Taking the look on his face for an unvoiced question she smiled softly. “I love you, too.”

Some of her ire seemed to have abated, or at least she'd locked it down to be let out in a fight, later, like she usually did.

He shook his head, “How do you do that?”

“How do I do what?” she asked, cocking her head at him.

“Know what I’m thinking all the time?” 

Her smile widened, “You shouldn’t be so obvious.” She stepped closer. “I’m well aware what this means, Alistair. I don’t want it to happen either, but we have no choice.” _Not if we want a stable Ferelden, not if we don’t want all our work for the last two years or more to be for naught. Not if we to catch these... villains._ He finished her thought for himself. “Even our story must come to an end,” she finished, her slender shoulders tensed for a blow that was entirely imaginary for both of them.

Eamon cleared his throat, “I’m glad you both see reason.”

“Shut up, Eamon,” Zevran snarled. “This has nothing to do with what you want. It has everything to do with how honorable they are. Don’t you dare to spit on that.”

Alistair found himself staring open-mouthed at the assassin and Moira’s blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. In that moment, he actually wanted to hug the other man. Moira turned to look at Zevran and Alistair didn’t know whether to be jealous or grateful at the palpable intensity of the gaze they gave each other. He decided he was glad that Moira did have someone other than him to look at like that. Not that he wanted it to be anyone else. He turned and walked out of the armory. 

If he had to be king, he’d just as soon get it over with.

~*~

Zevran watched the two Wardens walk ahead of him. Moira’s dark, unbound hair swaying with her every step. Alistair’s confident swagger at her side. The assassin remembered when the warrior’s walk was not nearly that aggressive or that certain. But then, he’d watched both Wardens come into their own in the last few years. Despite their surroundings, and the danger of discovery as they walked along the prison corridor, he found himself wondering if the king really would walk away from Moira. 

He caught Alistair glancing back at him, his eyebrows quirked in a silent question. Zevran shook his head at the other man, glad he’d not let anything of his thoughts on his face or the senior Warden would have challenged him right there. While he doubted either of them would fight the other in front of Moira, more because of how she would solve the altercation than out of any other barrier, he did not want to even think about the king right now. No matter how wonderful his heavily muscled ass looked under that armor. Alistair turned back to watch where he was going and Zevran felt his stomach twist itself into a knot. 

He pulled his eyes back to Moira’s long swaying hair and everything south of that, allowing himself to appreciate the way her robes clung to her slender curves. Alistair was lying to himself if he thought he could leave her, live without her. _Brasca, what a fool!_ Zevran cursed. Whether he was cursing Alistair, or himself, he wasn’t sure. He’d allowed himself to get entangled when he’d all but decided to leave. Watching her die in that damned Fade trap over and over had made him realize the same thing and then made it impossible for him to keep his promise to himself to leave.

Watching her die, repeatedly, had ripped him apart. Coming back to share her with another man was doing the same. It was easy at first, being wrapped up in their little three way haven, but as time went on, Alistair continuously made it clear he wasn’t interested in more than friendship with Zevran. But yet, the fair haired man kept looking back at him over his shoulder. 

When Moira called a break to let Eamon rest, the assassin sighed to himself as the other man dropped back to stand with him. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Alistair began.

Zevran raised his eyebrows, “And now is a good time?”

The king shrugged, “Fort Drakon’s rather huge. It could be a while before we run into anyone.”

Irritably, Zevran replied, “Then ask your question.”

Studying the designs on the pommel of his sword, Alistair asked, “So, those tattoos you have on your back --”

The elf smirked and interrupted, “You know quite well I have them in many other places than just on my back, my friend.” Alistair glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Zevran grinned to see the man blush even in the dim lighting in the corridor. 

But as he watched, Alistair seemed to master his embarrassment. “You’ve got me there.” He laughed shortly and quietly, then continued, “I hear that someone gets those by having needles put the ink under the skin?”

Zevran shrugged, wondering where the Warden was going with this, “A great many needles, amongst other things. Yes, that would be true.”

The younger man’s eyes widened, “Didn’t that... hurt?”

Grinning, Zevran replied, “Ohhh, yes, yes. But it is not so bad, in truth. If you like, I could give you one. I learned a bit of the art myself in Antiva. Something manly! Perhaps the symbol of the Grey Wardens?”

In the dimness, he saw Alistair swallow. “Uh, I’ll think about it.” The elf laughed and turned to follow Moira, Alistair falling in behind him a few paces back. 

It didn’t take them long to stumble upon a patrol. Before Zevran even had his blades in his hands, Moira had cast her freezing spell and shouted, “Eamon, get back!”

Zevran grabbed the former Arl’s arm and shoved him back behind him. Alistair leaped forward and hit the first guard so hard the man shattered. Zevran lunged around him and hit another guard hard enough to shatter her. No matter how often he did that, it was always mildly startling to see a person crumble into pieces at his feet. The skirmish didn’t last long with Moira throwing spells everywhere and his and Alistair’s flashing blades parrying and striking each guard before they got through to the mage or the arl. Within a few minutes, the patrol lay dead or wounded on the ground. He caught Moira’s sad expression and realized she felt terrible for not allowing them to first surrender to the man to whom they should be loyal. But if the real Anora's words were anything to go by, the chances of them finding an actual prison guard loyal to Alistair were slim. He was about to try to say something comforting when Alistair broke the silence.

“I doubt they would have surrendered, my love.” 

Moira slung her staff across her back and looked at the human, her eyes narrowed, “I know that. Doesn’t mean I need to feel good about slaughtering the fathers and mothers of our own citizens.”

Zevran watched the other man’s large hand rub her back, gently. “They were a threat to you and to Zevran. That’s all I needed to know.” That statement made the elf meet the hazel eyes of the king. What does that mean, exactly? He wanted to ask, but couldn’t make himself phrase the words. Instead, he spun and began to search the dead guards for anything they could use.

After they searched the guards’ bodies and Moira checked both men for injuries and lightly gave each a chaste kiss while she did it, Zevran leaned against the wall, waiting for her to check Eamon. He touched his lips with his fingers, briefly wishing the kiss could have been longer, or that he’d forced it to be longer. Alistair crossed over and slouched against the wall next to him. “I've been thinking about those tattoos? Are you... still willing to do one on me?”

Perhaps he could have some fun after all, “Oh-ho! You've decided to take the plunge, have you? What is a little pain, am I right?”

Alistair snorted, “I'm not worried about that. I think they look interesting, though I'd want mine... smaller. When can you do it?” He cleared his throat. “I only mean that Moira seems to like yours well enough...”

Anger flared through him, tying his stomach in knots. But Zevran contented himself with just a shake of his head. _Just for that..._ “Not so fast, my friend. There is an entire ritual to how this is done, do you not know? First I need to bathe you in a mixture of olives and rosewater.”

“You need to... bathe me?” Alistair’s voice cracked. “That seems... odd.” Out of the corner of his eye, Zevran saw the blush return to the king’s face.

Suppressing a triumphant grin, the assassin shook his head again, “No, no, no, not at all.” He gestured broadly to Alistair’s torso. “It needs to be worked into your skin, preparing it to receive the ink. The massage is quite pleasurable, do not worry. You are in good hands.” He nodded emphatically. It was rather petty of him to play up the more sensual way to prepare the skin for the tattoo, but the man was not going to leave her, Maker blast him! Meanwhile, _he_ was going to have to clean up the Crows, leaving the King here at her side.

The whites around the other man’s hazel eyes widened and he swallowed again. “The... massage?” His voice slipped an octave. “You're... having me on, aren't you?”

Zevran laughed at the other man’s narrowed eyes. “I might be. I might not be. Shall I describe the rest of the ritual to you?”

Alistair paused for a moment, looking at him steadily, his blush deepening. _Why is he looking at me in that way?_ The thought skittered across Zevran’s mind. Astonishment hit him in the stomach when the Fereldan accented voice replied, “Maybe later.” But then, the taller man’s hazel eyes slid to watch Moira as she walked past. _Brasca!_


	44. Chapter 44

Cullen stared at the wall of the Alienage hovel they were in, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that if she’d not been born a mage, Moira would have grown up in something like this. Bann Shiani sat on the other side of the room arguing with Shale and Wynne over how best to rescue the Warden Commander, the king and their assassin. 

Now that was a relationship he could barely comprehend. But he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge she was far happier with both of them than he’d seen her in a very long time. It still rankled that he wasn’t the one making her smile like that, though. He realized he was watching Shale with her hands on her curvy hips shout at the Bann and wrenched his eyes away.

Jowan sat down next to him and Cullen suppressed the snort of contempt he usually felt like expressing around the bloodmage. “I don’t want to just sit around and wait for news, Cullen. I owe her more than that.”

Reluctantly, the former Templar agreed with the Blood Mage, “I owe her more than that, too. I think we all do.”

“Then let’s go rescue them,” Jowan’s wan face broke into a smile.

“I thought you didn’t like danger?” Cullen pointed out, sourly.

“I’ve decided I hate sitting around more.”

The ex-Templar snorted, “That’s two things we agree on. You go reason with them, I’ll get our gear.” Jowan seemed to stare at him wide eyed for a minute as if he’d object, but Cullen made a shooing motion. 

The Blood Mage narrowed his eyes at the warrior and nodded. He waved his hand at a corner of the room in the largest house in the Alienage. “It’s over there.” 

Cullen went to lift the bulging pack and almost staggered under its weight since it was far heavier than he was expecting. The man owned less than he did, how by Andraste’s knickers was his pack so bloody heavy? Cullen spared a snort at how Moira’s bad language seemed to be rubbing off on him as he glanced back to see if Jowan was watching him. The mage seemed to have gotten wrapped up in whatever argument Shale, Wynne and Bann Shiani had gotten into. 

He shifted so he could open the satchel. It took a great deal of self control not to react to the dozens of vials of lyrium and lyrium potions that peek out from the folds of clothes and robes that kept them from clinking together and breaking or alerting them all to what Jowan had in his pack. Quietly, carefully, Cullen tied the pack shut and stood up, his face carefully blank, trying to ignore the sudden craving for the dust he hadn’t felt in quite a while. Now was not the time to confront the man over his ill-gotten goods. How he’d gotten hold of that much lyrium was something he’d have to ask him later. With or without Moira’s help. His Templar training was screaming at him to arrest the man right now. But, if he didn’t have more proof than just an overabundance of the dust, Moira wouldn’t believe him. After all, he could have just stolen it from Weisshaupt for which Moira would probably thank him. Cullen hoped that’s how the mage had gotten it, he didn’t think he was smart enough to have gotten hold of this much lyrium in the black market.

Or worse.

He handed Jowan the over-heavy pack with what he hoped was an innocently questioning glance. The other man must have bought it since he merely smiled and said, “Books.” _Interesting. I’ll need to tell her. If she’ll believe me._

Jowan was apparently in rare form today. Shale stopped arguing and stumped over to get her gear. Perrin surged to his feet and met them at the door, however. Shale pointed back to Wynne, “No, you’re staying.”

The mabari growled, his face on level with the petite warrior’s. She glared at him, he glared back. Cullen covered his mouth with his hand. He was pretty sure Shale would run him through for laughing at her having a contest of wills with a dog. The dog whined and seemed to widen his eyes sadly. She sighed and gestured for him to precede her out of the door. Cullen pressed his lips together and kept his eyes straight ahead. _She’ll kill me if I laugh, but damned if that dog doesn’t get his way every time. Just like his mistress._ Thoughts of Moira were beginning to hurt less, at least. _Am I finally accepting our fates? That the life I was once tempted by was never supposed to happen?_ Of course, the odd dreams of Darkspawn continued to underscore his current existence and the visions he’d been forced to see in the Tower were fading.

The small, odd group of four managed to leave the Alienage without attracting attention. Perrin paused just outside the gates and raised his nose to the air, sniffing purposely. Cullen and Shale, used to the mabari’s odd behavior, stopped to see what he was doing. It took Jowan a few paces ahead to realize no one was with him before he turned. The dog gave a short bark and took off running, his tongue lolling out of his agape jaws. Cullen shook his head at the irony of following a dog through Denerim. Even if it was a mabari. But only the hound would know unerringly where to find his mistress.

They probably made a ridiculous site sprinting across the market place after a four legged streak with his nose low to the ground, but Cullen was too focused on the dog to care. He led them down several alleys and around quite a few buildings until the new minted Grey Warden was completely confused as to their whereabouts. When the dog threw himself forward at a sprint, Cullen followed his path and stopped short, staring. A giant maelstrom had swallowed the north end of the alley and he could dimly see Alistair, Zevran and Moira rushing through it toward several assailants, an older man following them, holding a sword as if he were already injured.

The dog rushed headlong into the conjured storm, but Cullen held back, a little too aware of how much damage the magical forces could inflict on someone not protected by the wielding mage’s will. As he waited for the storm to die, he watched the three of them for the first time fight as a unit. He’d heard Alistair and Moira discuss using Templar abilities and magic together, but he’d always scoffed despite Moira attempting to teach him the tactics. He’d never actually watched them fight together. Ever. 

He snapped his jaw shut. He had seen Moira fight with a blade and after the first few times, it had stopped being astonishing. But to see a mage fight alongside someone Templar trained and use her skills to complement him, rather than oppose him filled him with something he couldn’t identify. She wasn’t even wearing armor, this time, and apparently using a borrowed blade. Moira spun and stabbed someone attempting to sneak up on the king and then Zevran was there to finish off the assailant. Alistair hit someone rushing Moira in the face with his shield, knocking them back. Moira spun again and hit the downed attacker with a spell that froze them solid. Alistair hit them, hard, and they shattered against the cobblestones. The dog jumped the last few feet of his run and ripped the throat out of someone about to take the opportunity of stabbing Zevran while he was engaged with another attacker.

The bandits, or whatever they were, were dispatched quickly and Moira’s storm dissipated enough for Shale and Cullen to approach. The elf mage spun around, wild-eyed, electricity dancing across her fingers which she quickly closed when she saw who was approaching. “You’re very jumpy, my dear,” Alistair said, teasing her. She gave him a quick grin and blew him a kiss before turning her attention back to Cullen. 

“You’re a little late to rescue us,” she pointed out, sheathing her sword.

Cullen grinned and shrugged, “It was a nice day, I thought we’d take a walk.”

“Down a bandit filled alley?” She raised an eyebrow and the others chuckled. It was odd to be joking with her, but he had to admit he was tired of being so very angry with her. 

“Exercise. Seriously, Perrin led us to you.” The dog lolled his tongue out at her and sat at her feet, staring up at her. Before she could praise him, a clink of armor and Alistair stumbled backwards, clutching what had been a minor wound on his arm that was suddenly gushing blood. He clutched at it with his gauntleted fist, his face turning pale, quickly. 

Moira shouted an order as she rushed to his side, Zevran catching the king as he started to fall backwards. Cullen never heard it because he was already turning, his eyes scanning the alley. Shale’s sword was out and she was also searching for the mage that had to be doing this. Wait, where was Jowan?

~*~

The first day Moira met Alistair he’d been standing in the middle of a ruin, the twilight sun glinting off his red-gold hair and he was smarting off to a pompous mage she vaguely remembered from the Circle. The day she realized she’d fallen for him was when he’d waved that silly little rose around, making jokes about slaying darkspawn with its rosy scent. When he agreed to teach her to use a sword, she’d thrilled when his arms went around her to show her how to hold the thing. And the first night she’d decided to teach him to cook. Not that she was much better. But if he made “dog stew” one more night.... (there wasn’t really dogmeat in it, it was a Ferelden staple that merely meant you threw what you had in a pot until it was a greyish mess), she’d hit him with the pot.

She opened herself to the Fade and in that infinite moment where she spoke with the spirit who seemed to always be on the other side for her, she begged for its assistance. Memories filled her mind in her desperation to bargain. The one time she’d tried to teach him to cook. 

_“No, Alistair, don’t stoke the fire or it’ll burn.” She told him patiently, as she used her dagger to cut up the few wild carrots Leliana had found. “Just stir it.”_

_“But it’ll never get done!” He wheedled. “Just a few more sticks, it’ll cook faster.”_

_“It’ll burn faster. And we’ll end up with the same mush you always make.”_

_He slung his arms across his bent knees. “I thought you liked that mush.”_

_Moira shrugged, “I lied. I do that to people who make me go weak in the knees.”_

_His hazel eyes narrowed. “You... you lied!” His voice was indignant, but the grin on his face belied him. “I -- I’ll... get you for that!”_

_Serenely, Moira continued to chop the carrots, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, one eyebrow raised, “No, you won’t. You’re starving, remember?” She leaned over to dump the handful of carrots into the simmering pot. The second the last slice fell from her palm, something hit her in the side like a ton of bricks. Or a very heavily muscled younger man with big hands straddling her legs and tickling her mercilessly. Moira giggled and squealed like a little girl and kicked her feet uselessly, much to Alistair’s laughing delight. She twisted and Alistair’s fingers found bare skin when her shirt rode up. His hands stilled, wrapping around her waist and she looked up at him to see his handsome face with a look of wonder slide across it. His hands were warm and strong against her skin, his thumbs idly tracing a line from her navel to the rest of his hands. She pulled herself up with the simple expedient of knotting her fingers into his rough woolen tunic and yanking him toward her._

_He paused for a moment, his hazel eyes locking with hers. She broke the distance first, pressing her lips against his as his hands slid upwards inside her shirt, stroking her bare back. The kiss made her heart pound, and her nerves tingle. When he tightened his arms around her and deepened the kiss, she wondered if her pointed ears had caught fire. He was holding her up as if she weighed nothing. She might, compared to the armor and weapons he carried on a daily basis. “Should I take over cooking so you two can find somewhere private?” an Orlesian accented voice interrupted. Moira felt Alistair jump, then break the kiss, lowering his head to her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling backward in her precarious position, and met the Bard’s eyes. Alistair’s breath tickled her collar bone, sending thrills down her spine._

_“If we stay like this, I won’t be able to walk,” he whispered. She arched against him as his voice intensified the electrical current down her back._

_She reached down and untucked his shirt from his pants. He shivered at her touch. “Hold that that thought for later, my love,” she whispered and kissed his ear briefly._ Suddenly, the memory faded and she felt infused with strength. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Power exploded outward from her and Zevran was there to keep her upright, his deceptively strong arms keeping her from collapsing on Alistair.

The King still lay limply in her lap, but his eyes were open, if not entirely focused. Moira smoothed his sweat soaked hair back from his forehead. Zevran reached around and helped cradle the other side of Alistair’s head. The spell had drained an awful lot of blood and weakened him severely. Moira summoned what little mana she had left to help his body replace the lost blood faster and a peaceful blue glow settled in around the king, disappearing into his skin. His hazel eyes cleared and she leaned down to kiss him, briefly. He even let Zevran lean down to kiss his forehead. Smiling, she glanced up to see Cullen and Shale dragging someone back to her, Jowan muttering along behind them.

Cullen threw the man to the ground unceremoniously. The mage glanced back at the former Templar, naked hatred in his gaze. “Jowan found him. I guess it takes one to know one.”

Moira’s eyes glanced to her oldest friend who shrugged, but didn’t let up from his litany, nor take his eyes off the enemy mage. She turned her eyes back to the prisoner, “Piss poor attempt at an assassination.” 

The man turned to look at the renowned Hero of Ferelden and swallowed, “The rightful Queen should rule! Not this Pretender Bastard!” The light of fanaticism shone in his pale eyes. Jowan stumbled backward, his already pale face even paler. 

“Look out!” He yelled. At the same time the mage shot to his feet, cracks shone through his skin and Moira felt the tell-tale imminent migraine of the sundered Veil. 

Zevran shot to his feet and readied his blades, “ _Brasca!_ ”

The world shimmered and in the blood mage’s place a Pride Demon roared its defiance at the small group.


	45. Chapter 45

Cullen, Shale, Jowan and Perrin were already attacking the demon and Eamon had done the wise thing and gotten out of the way. Zevran hauled Alistair to his feet and Moira managed to stumble out of the way. All she had to fight with at the moment was her staff. Zevran and Alistair threw themselves at the monster, their blades flashing in the fading sunset light. She hung back, marshaling her strength, saving it for healing. Maker knew they had no potions to speak of either. 

Suddenly, Jowan yelled her name. When she looked, he threw a lyrium potion at her. Catching it, she downed it and decided how he had it was a question for later. Right now, it was time to set off Storm of the Century. Just in time, too. The Pride Demon hit Alistair and Cullen hard enough to send them both flying. Shale hacked at its legs, but couldn’t seem to dent the tough hide. Zevran was using his sword and dagger to climb the monster and hack at its neck. 

The last part of the spell combination flew from her lips and figertips and the demon shrieked in rage as electricity shot through it. After that, the thing fell to the combined blades and hers and Jowan’s smaller spells. The mage’s body crumpled to the ground as the demon fled back to the Fade. Moira slumped, panting, and glanced at Jowan. “Where’d the lyrium come from?”

Jowan shrugged, shouldering his pack. “Some I stole from Weisshaupt before we left. I don’t usually need lyrium, since I use my own blood, but I kept all that you threw my way for a rainy day.”

Moira laughed, looking down at the body that Zevran was searching. “I guess it did rain, at that.” She glanced over and caught a fleeting suspicious look cross Cullen’s face. She tilted her head him, but before she could say anything, Alistair squinted in the direction of the setting sun.

“We need to move.” He told them. Moira was proud of how much he sounded like a king, a commander. “It’s time to deal with that thing pretending to be Anora.” Moira shuddered. Like most mages, demons made her skin crawl. She glanced at Cullen. Could he handle hearing what was actually currently attempting to sit on the throne? 

Eamon nodded, his eyes grim. “I'm glad it's not actually her. But I'm very worried at how this even happened to begin with.”

She shook her head at Cullen's questioning glance. "No time to explain. Let's just say, Anora's not who she says she is and we'll leave it at that." She turned to Eamon. "We got complacent. Which isn't going to happen again." The old man nodded, but his brow didn't smooth out.

Alistair took the lead, heading back to the castle. Moira let everyone pass her, taking up the rear with Perrin. Shale gave her a concerned look but the elf mage shook her head in a signal to keep going. It didn’t take long for the inevitable to happen, for Zevran to drop back to walk with her.

“You keep leaving your pretty rear end unprotected, _mi amora._ ”

“The more I do, the more you appear to protect it,” she smiled him, tilting her head and peering at him out of the corner of her eye. His expression didn’t match his light tone and he seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. She turned forward again and sighed, “So, out with it. What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything at first. After they’d walked half a block or so, she was about to repeat her question but he swore, “ _Brasca_! I have no great difficulty sharing you, my Moira, but am I truly doing so if he does not wish it?” 

“You really want to discuss this now?” she tried to keep her exasperation out of her voice.

He made a noise in the back of his throat, “Yes, now. Before we are set upon by brigands and blood mages again and I must watch you cry over his injury!”

She stopped in her tracts to stare at him. He only went one or two paces before turning to look at her, and then walked back to her. “You’re an idiot.” His mouth opened and closed, his hazel eyes widening in hurt. “But I’ll forgive you this time since the last time you were near death and he brought you to me unconscious, you couldn’t see the pain and fear for you in his eyes.”

“He... what?” 

She reached up to cup the side of his face, “He cares for you. A great deal. He even loves you. And I love you. When you nearly died, I would have become an abomination just to save you. As I would have for him.”

“He is not going to leave, _mi amora_.”

“Do you truly want him to?” she asked, stepping closer to him.

He turned to look at Alistair who’d stopped and was waiting patiently for them, his arms crossed, leaning against a building in studied nonchalance. “I do not want to be the second choice, Moira.” Her heart broke as he turned his gaze back to her, the old, hooded pain back in his eyes that made her want to kiss it away. 

“You have never been second choice, my love. But you push me away and pull me near so often, I have trouble knowing where to stand with you.” He just looked at her, sadly. She pulled his face down to hers, ignoring the fact that they were both still coated in blood and demonic ichor and pressed her lips against his. Surprise made her breath catch as he pulled her tighter against him and deepened the kiss beyond the short affectionate thing she’d intended. 

_Rough bark dug into her scalp and back as the assassin pushed her up against the tree, his bare hands searching for the ties on her robes to free her from their confines. Scents of trees and grass and loam were overridden by him, the scent of leather and oil and musk and danger. There wasn’t enough air in the world and she couldn’t really care as his tongue found its way between her teeth. She knotted her fingers in his hair under his braid, her other hand searching for the gap between his armor at the small of his back. When she found it, he groaned into her mouth and grasped her ass. He lifted her, using the tree as leverage and settled her legs around his hips, hiking her robes up, exposing her to the rough leather of his kilt, with only the thin fabric of her smalls in between. It was the first kiss she’d had since that hurried, shy, awkward thing she’d cornered Cullen into giving her. She had felt lust during that nearly chaste kiss, but not this torrid need to conquer him as he was conquering her. He was the one to pull away, his chest heaving. Leaning his forehead against hers, he gasped out, “I would prefer a better time and place, my Warden, for this.”_

This time, she found herself walked backward, quickly, forcefully, the assassin aggressively claiming her lips until the wall of a building stopped his advance. As he had the first kiss, he broke this one to lean his forehead against hers. “No, I do not want him to. He is my friend, too.”

“Then where shall we go from here?” she asked, kissing his forehead.

“I do not know.” He raised his face to look at her. “I suppose, how do you say, the ball is in his court, now?”

She snorted a laugh at his inadvertent pun. “Let’s get this thing with demon-Anora dealt with and the three of us will talk. It’s too important to leave up in the air.”

He nodded and stepped away enough to let her push away from the wall. Alistair looked up from examining his boots and met her eyes, the question in them plain. She only responded by shaking her head slightly to which he gave a short nod. She met everyones’ eyes one by one, knowing that things could still go very wrong and that her friends were in every bit as much danger now as when they’d faced the bloody Archdemon.

She met Shale’s eyes and grinned at the ferocity in the tiny dwarf woman’s eyes. Fake Anora was not the bloody Archdemon. She was a dead demon walking.

~*~

When they reached the royal palace, they passed through the main gates into the lower bailey and stopped. Sergeant Kylon stood in front of the gate to the upper bailey and the throne room past that. Pennons with the Mabari Rampant flapped in the twilight breeze, the light of the sunset turning the red armor of the guard even more brilliantly bloody. Kylon gestured and the ranks behind him parted to either side of the gate with the deafening sound of armored boots on cobblestones in unison. The sergeant hit his breastplate over his heart with his fist and his men followed suit, loudly, then they all knelt on one knee. Kylon glanced up, “My king.”

Moira didn’t need to look at Alistair to know he was blushing to the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat, “Um, yes, please rise. Give me your report, Sergeant?”

The guard leader glanced toward the inner bailey, “The queen’s holed up in the throne room with her men.” He glanced at Zevran who stepped up to stand beside Alistair. “Rumor has it, they’re a bunch of your compatriots.”

Zevran cocked his head, “Former compatriots.”

Kylon nodded, “Former compatriots. Might have been about a dozen, maybe more. Led by some large chap with very little hair.”

“Andraste’s bloody flaming knickers,” Moira swore. 

Behind her, she heard Alistair tell Kylon to go himself with a detachment of six men and get the real Anora from her cell. "The real Anora! Then who-?"

"I can't answer that right now. But my sister is in bad shape and needs help. Can you do that, Sergeant?"

While Alistair was speaking with Kylon, Jowan asked from behind her, “What large chap with little hair is he talking about?” She didn’t bother answering, she simply turned on her heel, and strode behind Alistair to the gate.

“Someone we met in Antiva, I think,” she heard Cullen tell the mage. “Neither she nor Zevran were happy to see him.” 

“Sounds like she’s even less happy to see him now,” Shale said as Moira stormed past. 

“Yes, Your Majesty, I can. Commander?” Sergeant Kylon’s voice stopped her in her tracks.

She turned slowly and caught Alistair and Zevran watching her, too. “What?”

The sergeant swallowed, “Before I go to Fort Drakon, I thought you'd like to know, rumors also state they have hostages.”

The elf mage felt the blood drain from her face as she involuntarily turned to look at her friends. Perrin whined at her feet. Her eyes met Zevran’s, then Alistair’s. “The fucking Crow _dies_.”

The assassin grinned ferally, loosening his sword in his sheathe, “Your wish is my command, _mi amora._ ”

Alistair narrowed his eyes at her, “What are you planning?”

Moira grinned, her teeth tight over her lips. “They know what Wynne is. They don’t know what Ash is.”

She watched Alistair’s grin spread across his face. “I love you.” Kylon looked startled, but quickly blanked his face. 

Moira smiled back, “I know.” She turned on her heel, leaving Kylon to select his men for his mission and leave the rest to retake the castle, and headed into the inner bailey and to the throne room. She heard the bootsteps of her friends as they fell in behind her and Perrin’s claws on the cobblestones beside her. Technically, she should let Alistair enter first, but she was a little too angry to worry about protocol at the moment. She also felt very uncomfortable at the prospect of using Ash like a weapon but she saw no alternative. She just hoped the girl would recognize an order to use her fireball when she heard it, no matter how veiled it was.

When she got to the throne room, Alistair caught up to her to walk beside her, Eamon on his other side. She felt, rather than heard, Zevran on her other side, but slightly behind to keep his vantage point free. “What have you got up your sleeve, Moira?” the king asked in a low voice, looking around the room.

“Just be ready, Alistair,” she whispered back. “We should try to take it alive.”

He snorted, “You’re optimistic.”

Before she could answer, False Anora glided down from the dias where she sat upon the stolen throne. Moira felt Zevran tap her arm twice with four fingers, indicating he’d found eight of the assassins with his skilled visual search. They knew he was with her. Wouldn’t they have hidden better? What was Ignacio up to? “I see the Usurping Bastard King escaped. I shall have to speak harshly with the guards.”

Under his breath, Alistair muttered, “I could always send you to meet them.” Aloud, he addressed his former, barely-acknowledged sister-in-law. “I’ve usurped nothing. As Cailan’s brother and Maric’s son, I am the heir to the throne. You have no right to it.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. Under his breath he pointed out, "I'd like to not publicly admit to a demon attempting a coup, all right. It's a little embarrassing, considering you're a mage and I'm a trained Templar." She rolled her eyes, but let him continue.

“Don’t forget the Landsmeet confirmed him,” Eamon pointed out, playing along with the face-saving, probably for reasons of his own. 

“That was no Landsmeet. There was nothing impartial about that duel. Pitting a young man against an old one!” Alistair's teeth grinding was audible. Zevran let out a cough that disguised a laugh. She remembered that duel. Alistair had been damned near unfit to walk after and had held together by sheer willpower through the running battles in the journey to Redcliffe. Loghain had hit like an Ogre and his blade cut through Alistair’s armor a time or two. She and Wynne had had to pick chain mail links out of his skin where Loghain’s sword had nearly gone through before they could heal him. That was not even including the major wounds in his thigh and left side that still scarred, despite their best efforts. _Unfair, my pointed ears!_ But, it was those injuries that made them wonder if they’d have reached the Archdemon to deliver the final blow.

Was that really how Anora had remembered it? No wonder she hated Alistair!

“The ‘old one,’ as you recall, agreed to it. The fight was valid. You are no longer queen due to your own father’s actions,” Eamon retorted, continuing the charade. Moira glared at him and he widened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders at her slightly.

Fake Anora raised her chin proudly, “I remain Queen. You have no proof this man is Maric’s bastard son.”

Alistair quirked an eyebrow and glanced down at Moira, “Apparently, it’s escaped her notice I could have used her husband as a shaving mirror.” The real Anora had been ruthless and clever in trying to retain her throne. And Moira had respected her at the time but hadn’t agreed with her about deserving it. The elf mage had taken the opportunity to put someone in power that didn’t dislike or look down on elves. Rather manipulative of her, she knew, but she’d been honest with Alistair with her reasons and knew he agreed with her. 

“You have my word, Anora,” Eamon pointed out. “I cannot bring Maric back and have him testify to this man’s parentage.”

“My husband was the rightful king but I ruled while he was out hunting his glory. My father did what he had to do! Cailan was a traitor that would have sold us all to Orlais!” The demon retorted. 

“He would never --”

Alistair put his hand on Eamon’s arm, “He would. Let it go.” 

The older man gave Alistair a startled glance and when Moira nodded he relented. It had to be hard to know your own husband was planning to set you aside to marry someone else; if the demon Anora knew about Orlais, the real one knew it, too. Moira didn’t look forward to the day when she would no longer be a part of Alistair’s life if she couldn’t change his mind -- it didn’t excuse torture or a coup, however. fake Anora continued, “And you! You would turn the country over to the elves!” This time, she finally turned her angry glare to Moira. 

“And here I thought you’d turned it over to the mages. Why didn’t you tell me I was nobility?” Zevran drawled. 

“You missed the ceremony,” Alistair replied. “It was lovely. Lots of pretty girls and good wine. Oh, and cheese!” Despite his joking tone, the king’s expression remained angrily set in stone.

“Enough!” Cracks were beginning to show in the demon's control of itself. Nothing terribly overt, but Moira could recognize the slipping of illusions when she saw it. Before it could say anything else, doors behind it slammed open and Ignacio strolled through. Behind him came three guards, one holding chains that bound Wynne’s hands and two others that held the struggling former slave girl.

“I agree,” the Crow stated, oozing confidence. “This has gone on long enough.”

“You’re right. It has.” Moira stepped forward and met the little girl’s eyes. Ash stopped struggling and stared wide eyed at Moira. “The time for talking is over. As the Chancellor of the King of Ferelden, I order you, Anora, to surrender yourself and your compatriots before you force us to do something we’ll all regret. You most of all.”

The imposter stared at the petite elf woman in front of her. She was several steps above her on the dais and used the height to attempt to look imposing, or so Moira thought. She also thought it failed. _Nothing like slaying a few dragons to make a demon look small,_ she thought to herself. “You really don’t care about this old woman and this child?”

“I care. I’m just not going to be manipulated. Ash? NOW!”


	46. Chapter 46

The little girl’s face tightened in concentration and Moira felt the tell-tale tingle of another mage manipulating the Fade a split second before a fireball shot across the room to impact the largest group of the demon’s men. Moira readied her own spell and assumed Jowan behind her was doing the same since she could hear the screams of more than a few men as he drew power. Alistair shouted, “Don’t let that woman escape!”

Not needing to be told twice, she released the lightning charge she’d been building amongst the guards and ran up the steps toward the false Anora’s retreating form, Ignacio ushering her ahead of him. _How the hell are the Crows involved?_ Moira wondered. Alistair’s feet pounded the stone behind her as he raced with her to cut off the false queen’s escape, leaving a half dozen guards twitching on the throne room floor. She spared a brief thought for Zevran, but knew he’d used the distraction of the fireball to take out the Crows stationed around the room. She knew a few Crows wouldn’t keep him long and he’d find her. He always did.

They ran through the puddles of torchlight and Alistair passed her in their sprint with his longer legs and heavy boots. Running in slippers, no matter how magically enhanced, was difficult over the slick stone floor and often painful. The sound of claws alerted her to Perrin’s following and she felt another worry fall away. _Now, where was Zevran?_

~*~

Zevran spun and kicked the assassin he’d found lurking behind a column, and taking advantage of the man’s momentary disorientation to use the dagger in his offhand to slice his throat. Before the body collapsed, another Crow launched herself at Zevran, but somehow she missed the glowing green sword in his other hand and he lunged so that the force of her rush ran the sword through her abdomen. _Two down, six to go_. He kicked her off his blade and raced to the next hiding place, this time an archer. He had the man’s throat slit before he could switch his bow out for a blade. Running for the fourth, another archer, he saw Moira, Alistair and the mabari run though the rear door of the throne room to chase the fake Anora and Ignacio. Several of the formerly hidden Crows slunk out of their hiding places to trail the King and his Chancellor. _Brasca!_

Zevran took out the remaining Crow archer with the simple expedient of throwing one of his spare daggers at the man’s neck. He glanced down at the melee on the throne room floor and saw that Wynne had dragged Ash to safety out of the fight, Jowan, Cullen and Shale managed to get themselves into a fairly effective wedge formation, with Kylon’s men flanking them. He caught the ex-Templar’s eye. Brown eyes met hazel for a moment and Cullen jerked his head to the door Moira had disappeared through. Zevran didn’t need more than that. He’d seen the bigger man fight enough to know that he and Shale definitely had the advantage. But Moira and Alistair were going to be in very big trouble, very quickly.

~*~

Racing through the hallways of the royal palace really brought home how huge this place was. Alistair squashed the brief fantasy the back of his mind played around with of a small cottage in the Bannorn, just him and Moira and even Zevran. Not that the three of them wouldn’t be bored out of their minds in two weeks. A flash of a green skirt fleeing around a corner made him shout to himself, _Pay attention!_ He redoubled his speed, the sound of Moira’s slippers behind him. 

They rounded the corner and ran down a short flight of steps to find themselves at the small courtyard in the rear of the palace where supplies and food were delivered. Despite the late hour, in the torchlight, it was extremely busy. It was populated by several wagons in various states of unloading with palace servants in their livery carrying heavy burdens of sacks of wheat, flour, sides of beef and pork. Orders were shouted, chickens were squawking, oxen were lowing where they were harnessed to the wagons. It was chaotic, noisy and smelly and the false Anora and Ignacio ran through the mess, the assassin pushing a path through the crowd. Alistair’s heart sank. The torchlight alternately hid them and exposed them as they ran. They would force the issue here and all these innocent people would pay. From behind him, Moira’s voice boomed out, his Templar-trained senses telling him she was augmenting her voice, “Stop right where you are!”

The Crow and the false former Queen stopped and turned to look at the Chancellor and the King. Alistair grinned to himself as Zevran stepped out from behind a wagon to block their path, the flicking shadows adding to the elf’s menace. The demon squared its shoulders and Alistair braced himself for it to cast a spell or reveal itself, but Ignacio shoved the false queen to one side and time seemed to slow down.

Zevran’s mouth opened in a yell that Alistair couldn’t quite understand. At the same time, one of Ignacio’s hands moved in an arc and the king brought up his shield. As he dropped it back down, he saw Zevran sprinting toward them, an expression of horror on his face as the fake Anora and Ignacio disappeared into the crowd. Heart pounding in his chest, stomach twisting, his head on fire with anxiety, Alistair turned to find Moira crumpled in the hard packed dirt of the courtyard, three thin throwing knives neatly lined up in a row, piercing her stomach, the blood spreading across the pale green fabric, turning it black in the dim light. Her pretty face was twisted in pain, her blue eyes shut, breathing ragged. _She must have been too low on mana to deflect the blades_. The random thought skittered across his brain as he dropped his sword and shield and ran to her. Both men reached her and dropped to their knees beside her at the same time. 

Alistair met Zevran’s eyes, seeing his own fear mirrored there. They had no potions, no poultices, Wynne was nowhere near them, and from the smell, the lowest dart had punctured her intestines and the rattle in her breath indicated the top-most one had pierced a lung. His fear was confirmed when her shallow cough produced dark blood on her lips. “NO! Perrin! Find Wynne! Or Jowan! Someone!” The mabari gave a low whine and ran back into the doorway.

Zevran pulled her head into his lap, his shaking fingers hovering over the darts. “If that bastard used poison...” he seemed to forget his Fereldan and wandered off into Antivan curses.

Alistair’s heart nearly stopped when Moira’s eyes opened, “He... he did.” Her hand caught at Alistair’s, her slender fingers entwining with his. Zevran made a pained noise in the back of his throat.

He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “You’re going to be fine, Moira. Wynne will be here. Stay with us.” Zevran was silent, but when Alistair looked at him, the torchlight glinted off the tears tracking down his cheeks. Moira’s free hand reached up to wipe them away, leaving a thin trail of her own blood behind. Zevran opened his eyes long enough to gaze into hers and despite her deathgrip on his hand, Alistair felt extraneous as the two elves said nothing, but volumes seemed to pass between them. He was about to stand up and go track down Wynne himself when he felt Zevran’s warm hand grab his, tightly. 

Moira’s breath was starting to rattle in her lungs worse and Alistair felt his own terror ratchet higher. Zevran’s grip tightened on his hand signifying his fear increasing as well. It wasn’t too long before Cullen arrived, Perrin at his heels. “What in Andraste’s name did you two let happen to her?” The ex-Templar’s voice was a growl.

Wynne’s grandmotherly voice spoke from behind him, “Oh, do shut up. Alistair, what happened?”

“Poisoned darts. I think they hit her intestines, her stomach and her lungs.”

She looked from one man to the other. “Cullen, get them out of here and send me Jowan. This may take both of us.” Perrin whined where he stood. “Yes, you, too, boy. Go with them.”

Reluctantly, they released her hands and stood. A spasm wracked her small body as she tried not to cough again, or perhaps the poison was responsible. Her eyes opened and they searched his face then Zevran’s as if memorizing them. Jowan pushed through them from behind, followed by Ash, and the three mages obscured Moira. Cullen’s hand on their shoulders dragged them back into the building. Shale stepped around them to go stand guard over the mages as they worked. She glanced back at him and Zevran and nodded, once, tears welling her eyes. He looked up and realized the servants had stopped their work and had encircled the small group, watching silently, anxiously. Of course, somehow Moira always managed to charm everyone no matter their position or station.

~*~

They found a small chamber off the corridor in which to wait, Cullen stationed himself outside the door, giving the two men some measure of privacy in their grief. Though given the infatuation the older man had previously exhibited for Moira, Alistair wondered if he wasn’t just falling back on his training to keep from thinking. It was something he, himself wished he could do at the moment. After sparing a moment to scratch Perrin’s ears to comfort the mabari, Alistair leaned against the wall and put his face in his gauntleted hands. He didn’t pray often any more. He’d gotten the feeling no one was listening despite the Chant and what he’d been taught about Andraste being an intercessor. But, feeling so utterly helpless in the face of Moira’s impending death, he could think of nothing else to do. _Dear Maker, please don’t let her die. Let them find some way to save her._ He didn’t know how long he repeated that prayer as if it were some sort of mantra. 

Zevran’s voice broke his train of thought. “No matter what happens, the Crows need to be stopped. They need to learn to not interfere in other country’s politics. Or deal with demons. They’ve overreached themselves.”

“You can’t be serious, Zev. That’s a suicide mission.”

“So? If she dies, I can see no reason to, as you say, ‘stick around.’” The elf pulled himself up to sit on a crate against the opposite wall and leaned his head against the plaster looking at Alistair from under lowered lids. “And you will be in a weaker position in Ferelden if it’s known a Crow took out your Chancellor. Or worse, attempted a coup via whatever that was. You would have no choice but to go on the offensive to maintain your throne. Again.”

Alistair sighed. He hated it when Zevran was right. “And if she lives?”

“They still need to die. The Crows are a rotting cancer. They need to be stopped before their delusions end with Thedas in chaos. The rest of the countries cannot survive being run the way Antiva is being run. I’m not even sure Antiva will survive it for much longer.” 

“Then what do you propose? Either way, I lose a good friend.”

The elf gave him an oblique shrug, “Our separation was going to happen anyway, my dear Alistair. Besides, you have made your feelings toward me clear.”

“Yes, you’re my friend. The only other person besides Moira I trust completely.”

Zevran looked away, drawing his legs up to his chest and resting his arms on his knees. “That is... good to hear. I’m going to ask you a question, my Alistair, and I want you to answer honestly. What do you want from me?”

Before Alistair could answer, Ash came running up to Cullen, shouting with her ruined voice, “Wynne needs them!” Alistair’s stomach twisted as Zevran launched himself off his crate to race through doorway and to Moira. Alistair followed, just not quite as fast as the nimble assassin.

When they arrived at the courtyard, Moira’s arm was over Jowan’s shoulders and he was holding her up. Ash was crying silently, and Wynne somehow looked older. Perrin ran to his mistress and bowed at her, wagging his stump of a tail. Moira’s head remained bowed and she didn’t respond to her wardog. Wynne must have seen the shock on his face. “She lost a great deal of blood. And I can’t seem to counter the poison, only hold it at bay. She is still unconscious.” Behind them, on the ground, Alistair could see the dark stain where Moira had lain. It was significantly wider than when he and Zevran had been sent away. He looked back at the tiny form of the woman he loved hanging limply from Jowan’s shoulder. He glanced at Zevran whose face was twisted in rage. 

Alistair closed the distance and scooped the small form up in his arms. “She has a room, here. She’ll be more comfortable there until you figure it out.” He clung to that small hope. _It was a Crow poison. Zevran should know it, right?_ He glanced down at the other man and watched his long fingers flexing into fists repeatedly. 

“Do you know what it might be?” the king asked as he walked, swallowing his panic at how still the woman in his arms felt, how shallow her breathing was.

“No. Not right now. We may need to hunt that son of a broodmother down and rip the antidote out of him.”

Alistair felt his lips tighten in a feral grin. “I might look forward to that.”

It didn’t take very long for Alistair’s long legs to bring him to Moira’s room. It was just as he’d left it nearly six months ago. Small differences, though, from the absence of its mistress. The fireplace was filled with nothing but ashes, the books had a fine layer of dust. Zevran reached the bed first and drew back the blankets so Alistair could lay her down. He looked in disgust at the punctures in her mage robes and the dark stains where her blood had seeped out. His fingers trembled with the urge to strangle the Crow who’d done this to her. He glanced over at the mages, “Give us a minute to change her.” Wynne nodded and dragged Jowan and Ash back out with her. Perrin parked himself at the foot of the bed, watching.

Alistair tried not to think about how still and pale Moira was. The last time he’d seen her like this was when she Joined the Grey Wardens. He bent to unfasten the many buckles, while Zevran hunted for something more comfortable to change her into. It was a mechanical process where he tried not to notice the greenish cast to her fair skin nor how limp her limbs were. He was glad to see the punctures had been healed, though. He pulled the nightgown over her head that Zevran handed him and between the two of them they got her settled. When their task was done, they stood looking at each other, Alistair uncertain of what to say. “She’ll be all right,” he offered. Hearing the words come out of his mouth made him realize just how powerless he felt.

The elf’s face tightened into hard lines. “Then what? After I teach the Crows a lesson, we continue on as we have been?”

Alistair shook his head, “I told you, Zevran. As much as it kills me, I have to let her go. I have to let you go.” _A quick grin at his friend the last time Moira had yelled at Cullen over something minor. A game of cards during the Blight where Zevran had enlisted Alistair’s aid to cheat Morrigan blind. Saving his ass when he’d managed to get surrounded by hurlocks and an Ogre was bearing down on him._ So many things, little and large, that led him to depend on Zevran as a friend.

Zevran’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Let me go?”

Clenching his teeth, the king looked away. “I can’t be friends with you. Not... when you’ll remind me of what, who, I had to give up. I’ll always know she’s with you instead of me.” Silence reigned for a moment as he felt Zevran’s eyes on him. 

“So, you would let us both go? What if we would not let you go?” 

“Do I have a choice?” He paused and blinked at the elf, “Wait... what?”

“I was there when Moira told you a king must take his pleasure where he could. That duty cannot become everything, my friend.” The smaller man approached from the other side of the bed, but stopped, standing close, forcing Alistair to look down at him. 

“That’s not quite what she said, Zevran.” Alistair crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

“It is close enough, Alistair. You told me that we’re the only ones you trust. I do not have so many friends that I wish to lose one.” Zevran imitated his posture. 

The king stared at the assassin for a moment. He’d faced an Archdemon without flinching, but the prospect of talking to Zevran terrified him. But, he’d never run from anything else he’d been afraid of. “Wait. Hold that thought. She needs help. You and I need to talk.” He bent to kiss Moira’s brow, alarmed at the heat and the sweat he felt against his lips. He crossed the room to the main door on the other side of which waited the mages. “Come with me.” Zevran gave an irritated shrug and gave her forehead a small kiss also, followed Alistair.

Without a word, the two mages and the little girl pushed past Alistair and Zevran and headed for Moira’s bedside. Quietly, Alistair shut the door and turned to Cullen. “Can you make sure they’re not disturbed? I need to talk to Zevran somewhere besides a public hallway.”

The bearded man scowled at Alistair, “I’ve been guarding her longer than you have. Why should I stop now?”

Alistair rolled his eyes, but Zevran spoke before he could tell Cullen off, “Little Warden, I suggest you stand ready to aid your commander in her time of need.” His brown eyes widened at the reminder of who Moira was and he took up a position near the door. Alistair shook his head and led Zevran down the hallway to his own study. The room was far less dusty than Moira’s had been, but no one was under orders to leave his rooms alone if he wasn’t present. But then, he didn’t own anything that might blow up in a servant’s face or turn them into a toad. He was surprised, however, that either of their suites had still existed. Apparently getting rid of them hadn’t been high on the false Anora’s To Do list. He heard the elf close the door behind them.

“So, talk,” the smaller man ordered, throwing himself bonelessly onto a chair and glaring at the warrior.


	47. Chapter 47

“I -- don’t know where to start,” the king said, sitting across from the assassin, but remaining on the edge of his chair. He was uncomfortable for more reasons than just sitting in full plate armor. He had to squash the urge to rush back to Moira’s rooms and hover. That would not help her.

“Start with the part where you’re an idiot for cutting yourself off from friendship out of duty.” 

Alistair blinked at the vehemence in Zevran’s voice. “Right. Well.” The warrior cleared his throat, clinging to the threads of his temper. “Moira told me once that I needed to stand up for myself, that no one else would do it for me. And she was right. But at what point does standing up for myself mean that I get to ignore others? I have responsibilities.” _Oh, Maker, let her be all right._

“I cannot believe I am hearing this.” Zevran leaped off his chair and pointed at Alistair as if he would stab him with his own finger. “You are the king! Act like one!”

“I am! I have to have an heir!”

“So then marry some farm girl, leave us to get an heir and then come back. I see no reason for you and I to stop being friends in that scenario.” Zevran glared at Alistair. He took a deep breath and continued. “I hated that you were with her when I could not be. I believe I even hated _you_.”

Alistair stared at the elf for a moment. “When I thought she chose you first, I hated you, too.” The sense of relief he felt confessing that surprised him. Had it really bothered him that much?

“I hate that she still loves you.” The assassin’s voice dropped in volume, the pain evident in his posture, as well.

“That makes the feeling mutual. Would we be friends without her?” 

Zevran shrugged, dropping to slouch in the chair again. “Yes. When I wouldn’t be trying to get into your pants, that is.”

Alistair had to laugh at that, “So, not much different than now, then.”

Zevran frowned, “I have been very careful with you, my friend. I’ve attempted to not scare you off.” The assassin looked at the cold fireplace again. “Whose idea was this separation, anyway?”

Alistair cleared his throat, “Moira’s. We discussed it while we were looking for you in the Fade trap.”

“And why did you agree to it?” 

“Because I don’t see any other way to make sure she’s happy. You will take care of her. You will love her.” _She_ will _survive. Maker, please in the Name of Andraste let her be all right._

“And who will do that for the mighty King of Ferelden? Mmm?” 

Alistair shook his head, “What are you talking about?”

“This hypothetical farm girl will not take care of you and you will be lonely and bitter before your time.” It was the assassin’s turn to clear his throat. “And Moira will resent me.”

Startled, the king met the other man’s eyes, “It was her idea! Why would she do that?”

“Because she loves you. And she loved you, first. No matter that she took me to her bed first.” 

“I --,” Alistair put his head in his hands. “Dammit, Zev. What am I supposed to do? To keep the woman I love, I have to disrespect the mother of my children. To keep my throne, I have to cut someone I consider my best friend out of my life. If I weren’t king, this would be a hell of a lot easier.”

“But you are. And as King, you have the power to do what you want. Why did Moira make this suggestion?” 

“I -- I don’t know. She was the one who proposed our original arrangement. But we both knew it couldn’t last.” 

Zevran shook his head. “You Fereldens.” He clicked his tongue. “No one would bat an eye at our arrangement in Antiva!”

“Well, this isn’t Antiva.”

“I have become painfully aware of that.” The elf sighed. 

“I thought she made it, originally, because she was tired of me.” That hurt to admit out loud. Saying it made the knife twist harder in his gut. 

There was a rude noise from the other chair. “You brought me in here once to show me that painting.” A long-fingered hand gestured to the artwork over the fireplace. “That painting is still true. Neither of us letting go.”

The king glanced up at the heavily gold framed painting. “How do you let go? When you fall in love, how do you do it? I thought she’d let me go.”

“She hasn’t.” 

“And she hasn’t let you go, either.” 

“I think she lets us pull on her like we do because despite her having chosen repeatedly, she doesn’t want to lose our friendship any more than we want to lose each others’ or hers.” Zevran shook his head and looked back at the king, hazel eyes narrowed in amusement. “That was almost profound.” 

Alistair barked out a laugh, almost but not quite forgetting his worry. “Are you telling me we can only be friends when we’re both with Moira?” 

Zevran slouched back against the chair, his fingers clenched around the arms, finally showing his own worry. “Apparently.” Alistair felt the assassin’s gaze sharpen, as if he were paying even closer attention to him. “What will happen when I want more than your friendship?” 

Shifting uncomfortably, Alistair asked, “Can we figure out our friendship first before jumping off of that bridge?” 

Zevran laughed, “Of course, my friend. Though it is fun to torment you.”

Alistair grinned wryly. “I noticed.” Another moment of silence passed, this one more comfortable than almost any other he’d spent in the elf’s company without Moira since the two men had met. But, there were things the king needed to do. “Look, we’ve got to figure out which way Ignacio took that demon. I need to get Kylon’s men out there chasing down leads.”

Zevran shook his head, “Those men are no investigators.” 

“True, but there are many more of them than there are of me and you. And I won’t leave Eamon to regent again any time soon. I’ll put them under your command. Find that son of a bitch, Zev.”

“Your wish is my command, my friend.”

~*~

They both rose from their chairs, ready to try to stay busy to keep their minds off of Moira’s condition. Zevran felt unwilling to let either Alistair or her out of his sight, but Ignacio needed to be stopped. As did whatever had taken Anora's place, but the assassin was a higher priority if Moira could not be cured magically. He glanced at Alistair and watched an odd transformation come over his friend. He’d only ever seen it happen with Moira, but apparently, Alistair had been taking notes. His shoulders went back and his spine straightened. His already square jaw seemed to tighten as his teeth clenched. Sharp amber eyes met Zevran’s and the assassin was amused to find himself responding to the challenge with the rush of adrenaline dumping into his system, his own shoulders squaring and the urge to feel the smooth hide wrapping the hilts of his blades in his hands. Alistair usually only underwent such a transformation when he knew a battle was imminent. Though, Zevran supposed, sitting on a throne was a daily battle. “Are you ready?” the king asked.

“As your Minister of Foreign Affairs, I am required to inform you that I am always ready, your majesty.” 

Alistair looked at him for a moment before a broad grin spread over his face. “Remind me to thank Moira for your title. I can’t wait to introduce you in court.” 

Zevran gave a slight bow, “I await that day.” 

Alistair laughed again. “Come on, we have work to do.”

Zevran followed Alistair to the throne room on the off chance that Kylon and his men had returned with the real Anora. Shale stood with her arms crossed, an irritated look on her pretty, snub-nosed face and glared at one of the men on his knees, with one of the city guard holding his hands over his head. While Zevran watched, the petite woman drew back a mailed fist and punched the prisoner in the nose, pulping it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alistair break his facade long enough for a wince before bringing the mask of his kingship back up. The king approached Sargent Kylon, “Two questions: How is Anora and are these Idealists or hired thugs?”

“Incompetents, whatever they are,” came the succinct reply. "And her Majesty has been returned to her quarters in the East Wing, awaiting You Majesty's visit." The sergeant had apparently learned not to ask questions. 

Alistair smiled without humor. “Thank you. All right, let me put it this way, treason or deportation?”

Kylon nodded. “Ah, well. When you put it that way, they’re all going to need a trial.” 

Zevran grinned as Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We’ll call them all mercenaries and send them to Kirkwall or Orlais or something.”

Shale walked over to them and glared up at Alistair. “It--” she made a frustrated sound, “You made a sound point. A trial is too good. Though I’d keep their weapons and arms.”

“Good idea. I leave that in your capable hands, Shale.” Zevran grinned and walked over to the dias to sit and watch the proceedings as Alistair called Eamon over. Alistair held the mantle of leadership rather well, he thought. Of course, leadership reminded him of Moira and the state she was in. Without matters of statecraft to distract him, the memory of her pallor while the poison worked its way through her veins made him stand up and pace. However, even in his agitation, or perhaps because of it, he was still very much aware of everything going on in this room. When movement that shouldn’t have occurred crossed the edge of his vision as he turned on his heel at the end of one circuit, he’d launched himself in that direction with his weapons out before he’d even consciously registered a threat. 

Alistair whirled, his hand going to the sword on his back as a black clad body slumped to the floor at his feet. “We missed one.” Zevran spat angrily and searched the shadows for movement. A thought skittered across his mind as he hunted and his heart leaped into his throat. Alistair met his eyes and the two men wordlessly raced back down the hall toward Moira’s chamber. 

Rounding a corner, the sound of steel ringing on steel met their ears as Cullen struggled to hold his own against two Crow assassins. “Alistair!” The older man shouted as he shoved one of his attackers away. “One got through!” Zevran swore and dove through the opening Cullen left him. The assassin ignored whatever the man yelled next.

Alistair’s voice penetrated the sudden haze of rage as he took in Jowan, slumped against the wall, his hand outstretched as if to ward something off, a nearly inaudible spell tumbling from his lips, Wynne’s shaking hand out-stretched as she also cast a spell and the small figure of Ash huddled in a corner, her hands over her head, hiding her face. Moira lay still and silent on the bed, though her color had improved. Perrin lay motionless on the floor, a viscous liquid that could only be blood spreading out from the dog’s body. A maleficar stood in the center of the room, a blood-red miasma surrounding him that emanate from the slowly spreading pool that surrounded the Mabari. “It’s a blood mage! Zevran! No!” Wynne collapsed to her knees. 

“That much is obvious, my dear Wynne!” Zevran found himself completely unsurprised the Crows would send such after his Warden. After all, she was probably the only threat to whatever demon-raising plans they had. He doubted that once the mage finished Moira that he would simply flee. No, Alistair would be the next target. He knew the mage would drain him, but if he was lucky and very fast, he’d be able to kill the bastard before Zevran lost consciousness or died.

In two running steps, he threw himself at the man who turned to face the new threat but didn’t alter his chanting. The minor wounds that had begun to heal from his fight with the other assassins reopened, but Zevran ignored them, pain lancing through his limbs. He felt the pressure in the room change in a familiar manner and knew Alistair had cleansed the area of the blood mage’s spell, but that didn’t stop the man from beginning his chant again. However, Zevran ended the spell with the simple expedient of slashing the man’s abdomen open with Starfang and slicing his throat with his off-hand dagger. With a startled sigh, the man slumped and landed limply at the assassin’s feet. Zevran followed, dropping to his knees, his blood loss making him light-headed as his adrenaline rush abated. The stench of opened bowels filled the room, but he didn’t have the energy to be sick. The floor looked awfully comfortable, despite the liberal coating of blood.

But... there was something... undone. _Moira. Alistair._ The sound of fighting came to his ears, Alistair’s familiar taunts, Cullen’s snarling. Wynne breathed heavily. He pulled one leg up, his foot on the floor. He wanted to hold on to his blades, but the hilts were slick and they fell out of his hands onto the floor. No time for that. The sound he was listening for, he couldn’t hear. He pushed himself up with his hands on his thigh, his boots seemed to be the only thing holding his ankles together. A small body tucked itself under his arm and pulled on him to turn him. He followed it, it seemed like a good idea and it was the way he wanted to turn. 

At the foot of the bed, the heavy woven woolen quilts lay folded; it was too hot for them. The thin linen covered her small feet, her strong legs. He raised his eyes and felt his heart beat harder as he realized she was watching him, her blue eyes open. “ _Mi amora_ ,” he whispered.


	48. Chapter 48

He lifted his head groggily and met his Warden’s eyes. “You’re awake! How? Are you all right, _mi amora_?”

In answer, her slender fingers threaded through his hair until it caught in his braid. “I’m as good as new, if a bit tired. Wynne and Jowan had just managed to finish healing me when we were jumped.” The sudden familiar icy coldness and burning heat of her healing spell washed over him and he slumped against the bed in relief as he felt the dull ache of his open wounds close. “Rest, my love. “ 

“I --,” He was still dizzy from the blood loss and exhaustion, however, and found getting his feet under him again was more difficult than he expected. He remained kneeling by the bed, resting his upper body next to hers. He was tired, so tired, but at least the pain was gone. Her hand continued to stroke his hair. The bed moved as the healed Perrin launched himself at his diminutive mistress, washing her laughing face with his tongue. He heard the rattle of heavy plate armor and looked up from where he was leaning on the bed to see Alistair and Cullen enter the room, the king first, both bloodied and tired.

He heard, rather than saw, Wynne stand, “Alistair! Cullen! Are you all right?” Zevran watched as Jowan peeled himself off the wall, shaking and trembling in exhaustion and crossed to the two warriors to check on them. Seeing his friend safe and knowing Moira was awake, the assassin allowed the exhaustion to take over and slumped against the bed, laying his head on Moira’s hand, but remained awake. 

Fortunately, no one but he had been injured, though Jowan and Wynne were drained to the point of exhaustion. Ash curled up next to Moira and refused to move, her brown eyes frightened. Perrin lay at Moira’s feet, his head propped up on them. He allowed Ash to tuck herself in close to him, supporting him, when servants came to take them all to different rooms so that they could clean Moira’s, if in fact, the bloodstains would ever come out of the rugs and tapestries. 

“Take them to the guest suites, please.” In spite of his exhaustion, Zevran laughed for the sheer exhilaration of being alive and having both Alistair and Moira safe. Alistair gave him a quick grin before turning to Cullen, “Go take a bath and grab some food. Consider yourself off duty for the night. I’ll have Kylon’s men patrol the palace for now.”

The bearded man looked at the senior Grey Warden steadily, “If you insist.”

Alistair nodded, “I do. We’ll be fine.” Reluctantly, the other man nodded. Alistair gestured for a servant to lead Cullen to a room. Moira leaned on a wall, her face slightly pale from her own exhaustion. 

“Ash, help Moira,” he started to say when he felt himself pulled away from the girl and his arm was drapped over Alistair’s shoulder and grasped firmly, the man’s other hand around his waist to support him. 

Moira shook her head. “I’m fine. I just need to sit down. Fortunately, Alistair’s rooms are not far. Ash, please go with Wynne and Jowan. They’ll help you get cleaned up and get you some food.”

“No.” The little girl said, crossing her arms. She didn’t have to tilt her head far to look into Moira’s eyes, though. “I’m not leaving you or him.” 

Moira smiled and stroked the child’s bright red hair. “You won’t. You’re going to come right back to us when Wynne and Jowan have eaten with you and told you about that mage that attacked us. All right?” 

Ash’s eyes got even rounder. “They’re going to tell me about _magic_?” Moira nodded. “But I can come back?” 

“Of course.” Zevran glanced at Alistair to see the same amused expression he himself was wearing. Ash darted past Moira to take Wynne’s out-stretched hand.

Shaking his head, Alistair helped him walk to the royal suites just a little ways down the corridor. It wasn’t the first time Zevran had been in here, but it was the first time he’d be sleeping here. At least, he doubted his friend would kick him out. He still felt like his head was full of wool and like his arms and legs ended a long way away from his body. The bathtubs were already filled with hot water and after Alistair helped him to a chair, he managed to get his armor off and stagger to one of the tubs while Alistair went back to the other room to get Moira’s help with his own armor. 

Zevran sank into his gratefully, ignoring the alarms going off in the back of his mind that he wasn’t safe, not even here. He knew most of that was his extreme fatigue. Low voices reached his ears. Alistair’s baritone was quiet, but insistent. “I told you, I don’t care what Eamon said. I’m not letting you go.” _Oh, good, they were finally talking._

Moira’s breathy contralto was muffled. The sound she made when she was trying to yell through her clenched teeth. “You need an heir.”

“And we’ll find one.”

“How? Are you just going to hope one of Cailan’s by-blows just finds you on the street? Or we talk Morrigan pretty please into letting you raise her child?”

“You told me once that duty wasn’t always the most important thing, love. Why are you insistent upon it now?” Zevran leaned his head back against the tub, awaiting her answer. He could almost picture her biting her lower lip like she did when she was uncomfortable.

“You were too quick to agree, there in the Fade. I thought you were tired of me.”

 _Don’t laugh_ , Zevran urged his friend silently, _do not laugh, you stupid oaf of a man._ Alistair was apparently smarter at that moment than Zevran gave him credit, “How could you think that? I thought you were asking for a way out!”

“Why, by Andraste’s ass, would I want a way out?”

“Zevran.” There was a tone of finality to that statement that made the assassin wince. Perhaps he wouldn’t be staying the night here after all. When Moira said nothing, Zevran felt his stomach twist and the urge to sink below the water and stay till they both left was very strong, but he held himself still. “I know neither one of us ever respected your choices.”

“He was going to leave, you know.” 

“And then I was.” 

“And now? I assume the two of you came to some sort of decision?” 

The creak of metal and leather, the familiar sounds of Alistair sitting while still in armor. “What if neither of us --?”

She interrupted him, “That’s not possible. He’s been talking about going after the Crows even before this happened. And you know I have to go to Amaranthine. And you have a country to run.”

“You know what I mean, Moira.” 

Her voice was scared, “You mean, continue like we have been?” She let out a short laugh, “What a scandal! The king and his elven lovers!” 

“I can’t really seem to care about the scandal, love. I would have you with me and I’d get to keep my closest friend. Because you’re right, he’d leave, and not just to hunt down the Crows.” 

“You realize he can hear us.”

“If he wanted to say something, he would have.”

Closing his eyes he pitched his voice loud enough, “The two of you needed to talk. I thought it best I not interfere.” 

The sound of bare feet against the stone floor as she approached followed by the click of the Mabari’s claws as the animal paced her. The scent of her perfume, that somehow, even after everything, he could still smell, and the rustle of her linen gown getting stronger announced that she crouched beside his tub. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze. “Is this what you want?” she asked her raven brows drawn together over her wide blue eyes. Heavy boots on stone signified the king’s arrival behind her.

He glanced at Alistair over her head, who was merely watching Zevran’s face. They waited. The urge to jump out and run away, get his armor back on and flee was strong. He clenched the side of the tub until his knuckles turned white. Her slender fingers slid down the rim until she touched his fingers, her fair skin pale against his tan. He met her eyes again and drew that small hand to his lips. Alistair laughed. “He’s not going anywhere. Help me out of this armor.” He walked over to a chair against the far wall. A brief squeeze of her fingers against his, and Moira followed to help Alistair. Perrin looked at him from where he sat on his haunches in the middle of the floor, his tongue lolling in a canine laugh.

It wasn’t long before they were all three in their own tub, sighing as the hot water leached the aches and soreness from over exerted muscles. The sounds of splashing filled the room as they availed themselves of the soap to remove the blood spatters and grime from the prison that seemed like a century ago. Zevran leaned back, finally feeling clean. Then opened his eyes long enough to look over at Moira, her head leaning back against the rim and her damp raven curls hanging over the side. “How was it that you are cured, _mi amora_?” 

“Ash, actually.” She yawned. “She finally got up the courage to tell Wynne what she thought it might be. Apparently, it’s a common poison in Cumberland. Her former owner was fond of its use. She enjoyed the pain it inflicted.” Moira’s lips twisted in a grimace. “I thank you again for killing that miserable bitch.”

That would explain why he hadn’t recognized it. He’d never stuck around in Nevarra long enough to familiarize himself with the local concoctions. “I will have to ask our little friend for the cure in the morning, then.” 

“Yes, well… she will be staying won’t she?” The water sloshed as Alistair shifted in his tub across from both of them. “I mean, we won’t be sending her to the tower, will we?” he asked.

“I’m sure Wynne and I can arrange something with Irving and Greagoir. So long as the Revered Mother here in Denerim doesn’t throw a fit or anything.” The elf mage stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t honestly want to send a child to the Circle. Especially one who’s been through as much as she has.”

“Good. I’ve gotten used to having her glare at me.” 

Zevran laughed. “I am surprised you have not charmed her, my friend. Give it time.” He met Alistair’s eyes until the bigger man turned bright red. “Now, what is this about us all leaving?” He turned his head to look at Moira. Her eyes were closed again and tendrils of hair stuck to the sweat beading on her flushed cheeks and damp forehead. The thought of climbing into her tub and licking the droplets off her was briefly entertaining until he was forced to acknowledged he was far too exhausted to move. 

Without opening her eyes, she sighed. “Before I left, I’d arranged to meet some Orlesian Wardens in Amaranthine.” She waved a damp hand in Alistair’s direction. “You remember granting that to the Wardens, love?”

“Yes, I do. I just don’t like you going alone.” A glance at the king caught the other man’s glower at the petite elf mage. 

“I am afraid I must agree with Alistair, _mi amora_.”

Her eyes opened to stare at the ceiling. “I won’t be alone. And frankly, we each have too many things that require our attention for the two of you to hold my hand the rest of our lives.”

“But –,“ She made a chopping motion and cut Alistair off, her expression, from what Zevran could see, gentle despite her motion. “I don’t want to hear it. You have a kingdom to run. And I don’t trust the Crows or Ignacio or whoever was behind the imposter to not try to come back. We will have to deal with the real Anora in the morning. This... fiasco... means she's a loose end that cannot be left dangling. Oh, stop looking at me like that. I don't mean to execute her! Marry her off! But we can deal with her in the morning. Jowan, Cullen and Perrin will be staying here. Wynne has wanted to go back to the Circle for a least a little while so she’ll travel with me half way.” She turned her gaze to Zevran, instead of the anger he expected, her expression was still gentle. “And you, you are going into far more danger than I am. “

“I can handle myself.” The idea now of leaving hurt more than he could imagine. He glanced at Alistair and found the younger man gazing at both of them sadly.

“I know you can. I also know you intend to sneak out some night soon and head for the nearest Crow cell you can find and slaughter it and all the others you come across until you find Ignacio.” Her gentle voice stating what he’d only half thought of since her poisoning.

He laughed lightly, leaning back in his tub and staring up at the ceiling. “I would not leave you in danger.”

“I am going to Amaranthine. I firmly expect the rumors to be nothing more than idle chatter and end up being bored to death. I’d beg you to take someone with you, Zev, but I know you wouldn’t.” 

“If I may say something?” Zevran lowered his eyes to look at the warrior. “I hate the idea of us splitting up. I truly do.” He paused and looked at everywhere but the two of them. “But you’re right, my love. We have no choice. Duty and obligation, honor, calls us to end our honeymoon.” He scrubbed wet hands over his face. “Maker, I hate it. But there’s no real choice in the matter.” 

“Then we will simply have to make the most of the time we have. “ Zevran stated, standing up, water sluicing from his tanned skin. He stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel that had been placed out of splash range. He felt their eyes on him and smiled to himself. Drying his hair, he looked from one to the other. “And we shall have to find reasons to meet. Frequently.” Moira and Alistair both nodded their assent. He wrapped the towel around his head and left his skin to air dry. Zevran smiled to himself and headed for Alistair’s bed. He allowed the sound of sloshing water as they both left their tubs quickly fill him with a burst of joy. He dropped the towel on the ground and threw himself on the large bed, directly in the middle, his arms propping his head up to watch them approach. 

Alistair’s eyes widened in fear, however, as he froze in the middle of the room. “Wait!” 

“What?” Moira demanded crossly, stopping to turn and look at him.

“Wynne is leaving, you’re leaving… Zev’s leaving…. Ash is staying?” The note of panic in the king’s voice made Zevran smile.

He met his friend’s panicked hazel eyes. “Oh, come now, Alistair. You are a mighty Templar trained King. Are you truly afraid of one little girl?”

“Yes.”

Zevran patted the space beside him on the bed. "Come, let us help you forget such a frightening prospect." Moira had already stretched out beside him and he was beginning to feel the effects her lithe body pressed against him usually elicited. She lowered her mouth to his and kissed him gently and deeply. Reminded that just a few hours ago, he thought he’d never get to feel her lips again, he pulled her into his arms, returning her kiss hungrily. He was only vaguely aware of Alistair’s weight sinking onto the bed as he let himself finally, truly acknowledge that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he actually felt like he’d come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this through the end. Even when it got long between updates. 
> 
> This story is over, but Moira's, Zevran's, Alistair's, and Cullen's are hardly finished. True heroes' tales never are.


	49. Epilogue

Jowan stared at the tall warrior as he finished strapping on his armor. “You can’t actually be leaving the Order.”

Pulling on his gloves, Cullen gave the blood mage a wry look. “The taint is still in my veins, Jowan. You can’t leave the Grey Wardens.”

The slight man stood, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. “OK, I see your point. But, why now?”

Sitting to tug on a boot, the ex-Templar snorted. “She left us in Denerim to ‘guard the king,’ Jowan. She doesn’t need us.”

“She will.”

“No, she won’t. Moira doesn’t need either of us.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But the Wardens do.”

“There’s no Blight, Jowan. And we haven’t seen Darkspawn since Moira killed the Architect.”

“And that matters?”

Cullen stepped toward the mage, leaning in aggressively. “She harbors apostates and grants all of you carte blanche to do whatever you want in the name of the Grey Wardens. _She_ may be trustworthy, but I do not trust _them_. She will not listen to me! She refuses to see reason!” 

Jowan blinked at being left out of both categories but decided not to pursue the hole in Cullen’s logic. “You forget she’s a mage, too, Cullen.” He pointed out, instead.

“No, I do not. I was there at her Harrowing, Jowan. Do not forget that. I don’t.”

“ _She_ trusts them, why can’t you?”

Cullen paused and leaned back, crossing his arms. “After Uldred, can you really ask me that?”

Jowan looked down at the ground. “No, I guess not.” Glancing back up at the ex-Templar, he frowned. “What will you do? Go back to Kinloch Hold?”

Cullen looked away. “I guess. At first. Maybe I’ll get a transfer elsewhere. I don’t know yet.” His eyes went back to Jowan’s face. “All I know is, I have to get away from here.”

“This all doesn’t really have anything to do with me or Anders or Velanna. Does it?” The Templar had always done his best to bury his former crush on Moira. But Jowan had still seen the signs. He’d been more irritable than usual in Denerim and couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her here.

Cullen glared at the mage and swung his pack over his shoulder. He headed for the door of the quarters they shared. Jowan wondered if he was going to leave without answering his question when the warrior paused and looked back. “Just look after her, will you? She trusts too easily. Especially other mages.”

Jowan nodded and that seemed to be the only answer the other man needed. The mage sat back down on his bunk, shoulders slumped in defeat as the door shut on the heels of the departing man. “Who’s going to look after _you_?”

~*~

Cullen waited in the dimly lit corridor, the sound of raised voices through the heavy door reverberating on the stone walls of the Keep. He tried not to sympathize with the man being yelled at given that he was a tower escapee multiple times over, but he was also a brother. It was odd to think of a mage as a brother. Even odder still to take orders from one. Not that Moira was a normal mage. 

“I will not! You can’t allow them to send me somewhere else! What about Pounce?” 

Moira’s contralto was lower, more soothing but no less audible. “You’re not going because they demand it, Anders! I need you, and our mutual _friend_ , to go to Kirkwall and tell me what’s going on! There are some truly strange reports coming out of that place!” Cullen grimaced. _Well, there went that plan._

“You beat me to saving him, Anders. So, now, you’re the only one who can do this. As far as Pounce goes, I’ll find him a new home. Life in the Grey Wardens is no place for a cat. No matter how wonderful he is.”

There was a muffled thud, Cullen had to assume the mage had kicked a piece of furniture, “They all but say in those ‘orders’ that I’m to have ‘supervision’ while I serve, Moira.” There was a pause. “You’ll find him a family?”

“And? The day you can’t outwit your average Templar is the day you need to hang up your staff and head to the Deep Roads.” Cullen stifled a snort of indignation. He doubted he was included in that condemnation, though, Moira didn’t consider him a Templar any more, despite what he felt internally and what the other mage in that office thought. Her voice was quieter, more reassuring, “I’ve already talked to Felsi. He’ll have children to play with and teach manners to.”

The mage laughed, “I guess you’re right. And I guess two heads are better than one at that.” The mage sighed. “And children are probably better for Pounce than Darkspawn.” 

“How’s he doing?” Moira’s voice was concerned. Cullen assumed she wasn’t talking about the cat. 

It was confirmed when Anders replied. “He -- I -- we are better. It’s taken some getting used to.”

“Just remember, he’s not all that familiar with this side of things, Anders. Everything is black and white to him.” Cullen shuddered. How she could condone this _merger_ he had no idea. The very idea repulsed him. That she’d actively concealed the mage’s survival after the attack on Vigil’s Keep in order to hide his changed condition confused him. The fact that she’d confided in him, as well, really confused him. She’d left him in Denerim with Jowan to guard the king while she dealt with the problems here then sent for him after she’d gotten things settled. Either she was planning something and he couldn’t see it, or she didn’t trust him. He clenched his teeth.

“Yes, I know. You still sore I beat you to it?”

Moira let out a laugh. “No. You were the one on the spot. I made sure either you or I would be near him, after all. Not like we could have counted on Velanna.” Both mages laughed that. Despite the fact that what they were discussing made his skin crawl, he’d made the acquaintance of the irritable Dalish Warden yesterday and had to agree. “Just don’t let his need for causes overwhelm you.” While Cullen disputed the entire situation, at least he could be grateful that Anders spared Moira from becoming an abomination. Cullen had no qualms about striking down the apostate, but he doubted he could kill Moira. His thin resolve so long ago in her Harrowing chamber had eroded like dust in the wind.

Anders laughed, “Me? A revolutionary? All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools.”

“So you’ve said,” she replied, laughing as well. “You’d better go before the others get back from the field. You can’t keep hiding in the cellars indefinitely.”

The mage’s voice was suddenly sad, “Just... I guess you can’t really say good bye for me. Watch over them, would you?”

“I’ll do my best, Anders, but ours isn’t really a safe and cozy kind of job.”

“Yes, I know, saving the world and all that.” There was a pause. “Good bye, Ser Pounce-a-lot, I hope you love your new family.” There was another pause and the mage’s voice sounded thicker. “Well, good bye, Commander.”

“Anders, don’t be a jackass, I have a name.”

There was amusement in the apostate’s voice, “Good bye, Moira.”

“Zevran will meet you at the gate. Hurry, before it’s daylight.” She paused and scrolls being moved around filled the brief silence. “Send Cullen in.” There was the sound of boots on the stone floor and Cullen straightened up from slouching against the wall (really, his discipline was sorely lacking lately). The fair haired mage caught the former Templar’s eye and Anders winked as he walked by. Cullen strangled the urge to strike the other man down. He doubted he’d survive the attempt.

Cullen shook his head. He’d never understand Moira’s tolerance for that man. Fortunately, if the next few minutes went as planned, he wasn’t going to have to try for very much longer -- he’d be on his way back to the Chantry. He pushed open the well-oiled door, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the brightly lit chamber. The mabari on the floor picked his head up and gave him a whine in greeting before lying back down. Large blue eyes gazed at him from under a short fringe of black hair. When had she cut it again? “I got your letter, Cullen.”

He cleared his throat. “Good. I, uh, I was afraid you’d be upset.” 

Moira walked around her desk to stand in front of him, her hands on her slender hips. “Well, I was, at first. But I realized that I want you to be happy. And if staying here isn’t doing that for whatever reason, well... I’ll miss you, but I understand.”

He nodded, staring down at her. Hundreds of things he wanted to say on the tip of his tongue, each more useless than the last. After all, she loved not one, but two other men. And thought of him as a brother. Moira’s eyes searched his face. “Do me a favor, Cullen?”

“Uh, what would you have of me?”

“Don’t trust anyone. Even Greagoir and Irving. They were up to something when I was there last. When they sent you with me.”

Cullen snorted. “They’re always up to something. Usually just trying to one-up one another.”

She laughed. “Of course they are. Just... watch your back. I won’t be there to do it.” 

The taller man smiled in spite of himself. “You’re really worried about me.”

“Of course, I am, you big oaf! You’re one of my oldest friends.” She glared up at him, a small smile playing about her lips. The thought of rubbing his calloused thumb across them, then gently kissing her, was fleeting and dim as if it had happened in another life to another person. 

“Oldest friend, huhn? I’m honored. Look, you watch your back.”

“I’ll be fine, Cullen. Are you leaving in the morning, or sooner?”

“As soon as it’s light. I thought I’d grab some food, though, first, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” The conversation sounded stilted to him. After everything that lay between them, they could only chat about small inconsequential things like food and departure times. It seemed utterly inadequate. She looked up at him, still, her heart-shaped face unreadable. “You’re not really going to Kinloch Hold, are you.” 

He scrubbed his fingers through his curly hair. “How in the Maker’s name can you read me like that?”

She smirked. “You’re not nearly as devious as you think you are.” She shrugged and walked back around to sit at her desk, gesturing for him to take a seat. He hesitated, but did as she requested. “You may be going to Kinloch at the moment, but you’re going to ask for a transfer aren’t you? Somewhere far away.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Val Royeaux? Starkhaven?” She shook her head slightly. “You’re thinking of Kirkwall, aren’t you.”

He glanced away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. Until I just heard you send your pet abomination there.”

Moira frowned. “He’s not my pet. Would you feel better if I were the one hosting the spirit?”

“Maker! No! If I’m in the same city as that man, Moira, I will be forced to slay him. And then you’ll kill me.” He met her eyes, trying to keep his face blank. “If you were the Abomination, I’d get to have an answer to a question I don’t want answered.”

The mage raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. “And what’s that?”

He swallowed. “Whether I could kill you or not.” 

To his surprise, her expression never changed and her eyes bored into his skull, unblinking. “If I had decided to become a dangerous Abomination, Cullen, you’d be one of the first people I killed just to be sure you wouldn’t interfere.” _Maker, she’s serious!_ Then, she smiled, all traces of the frightening expression gone. “Which is why I was going to ask you to go to Kirkwall anyway.” 

He frowned at her. “Why?”

“Because,” she leaned forward. “I need you to keep an eye on Anders. Not to kill him, but keep him safe, please. From himself and everyone else.”

“You can’t ask me that. You can’t ask me to turn a blind eye to an Abomination!”

Moira sat back in her chair. “You’re right, I can’t. But I can ask you to look out for a fellow Grey Warden.”

She has you there, a little unkind voice in the back of his mind pointed out. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to look out for him?”

“Keep an eye on him. Don’t let the Chantry grab him. If he turns unstable, send for me. Zevran will probably be in and out of Kirkwall frequently cleaning up Crow nests. Get word to him.”

She made it sound so... reasonable. “You’re manipulating me.”

She sighed. “Whatever, Cullen. I’m asking you for a favor. Something tacked on to what you were going to be doing anyway. If you don’t want to do it, fine.” She stood, her long robes swinging about her ankles, revealing sturdy winter boots. She paced to the window casement that looked out on the snowy courtyard. She pulled a fur lined cloak tighter about her shoulders, the ruff coming up to almost cover her pointed ears. 

He stood. “Fine. I’ll do it. Do you want your updates encoded, or should I bother?”

Blue eyes regarded him steadily. “From everything I’ve heard, Kirkwall’s a cesspool. Encoded is probably better. Mention Uldred, I’ll know something’s wrong. Talk about Jowan and I’ll know you need me there as soon as possible. For an all clear, ask how the weather is or something.”

He rolled his eyes, “That has got to be the stupidest code.”

She shrugged, “It won’t be broken, though.” 

“You have a point.”

She looked out the window again. “I hate that I’m asking you for this. I really don’t want you to go.”

“I can’t stay.” _Please, tell me to stay._ But she wouldn’t. She never would. She would beg the assassin and the king but never him. “And I won’t promise anything in regards to Anders.”

“I know. But you’re still going to Kirkwall?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”


End file.
